










Frances Kane’s 
Fortune 


BY 

L. T. MEADE 

1 

TD 


NE:W YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 Wok'hc St., cor. Mission Plack 


iUKU WKEKLY. 


A.NNUAL SL:hSCKU-TU)X, $12 OO, 


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7. The Old Courtyard. By Katherine S. Macquoid 25 

8. Frances Kane’s Fortune. By L. T. Meade - 25 

9. Passion the Plaything. By R. Murray Gilchrist, 25 

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FRANCES KANe’s FORTUNE 


V 





Frances Kane’s Fortene. 


BY 


L. T. MEADE, 


Author op “ How it all Came Round,” ” Water Gipsies,” etc. ^ 











NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COIVIPANT 

150 Worth Street, corner Mission Place 


Copyright, 1890, 


BY 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 


FRANCES KANE’S FORTUNE. 


CHAPTER 1. 

THE LETTER. 

It was a very sunny J une day, and a girl was pacing up 
and down a sheltered path in an old-fashioned garden. 
She walked slowly along the narrow graveled walk, now 
and then glancing at the carefully trimmed flowers of an 
elaborate ribbon border at her right, and stopping for an 
instant to note the promise of fruit on some well-laden 
peach- and pear-trees. The hot sun was pouring down 
almost vertical rays on her uncovered head, but she was 
either impervious to its power, or, like a salamander, she 
rejoiced in its fierce noonday heat. 

“ We have a good promise of peaches and pears,’^ she 
said to herself; “ I will see that they are sold this year. 
We will just keep a few for my father to eat, but the rest 
shall go. It is a pity Watkins spends so much time over 
the ribbon border; it does not pay, and it uses up so many 
of our bedding plants. 

She frowned slightly as she said these last words, and 
put up her hand to shade her face from the sun, as though 
for the first time she noticed its dazzling light and heat. 

‘‘ Now I will go and look to the cabbages, she said, 
continuing her meditations aloud. “ And those early pease 
ought to be fit for pulling now. Oh! is that you, Watkins? 
Were you calling me? I wanted to speak to you about this 
border. You must not use up so many geraniums and 
calceolarias here. I donT mind the foliage plants, but the 
others cost too much, and can not be made use of to any 
profit in a border of this kind.^' 

“ You can’t make a ribbon, what’s worthy to be called 
a ribbon, with foliage plants,” gruffly retorted the old gar- 
dener. “ Master would be glad to see you in the house, 


6 PKANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 

Miss Frances, and yer’s a letter what carrier has just 
brought.'’^ 

‘‘Post at this hour?^’ responded Frances, a little eager- 
ness and interest lighting up her face; “ that is unusual, 
and a letter in the middle of the day is quite a treat. Well, 
Watkins, 1 will go to my father now, and see you at six 
o^clock in the Kitchen garden about the cabbages and 
pease. ” 

“ As you please. Miss Frances; the wegitables won^t be 
much growed since you looked at them yester-night, but 
Pm your sarvint, miss. Carrier called at the post-office 
and brought two letters: one for you, and Pother for mas- 
ter. Pm glad youh-e pleased to get ^em. Miss Frances.-’^ 

Watkins’s back was a good deal bent; he certainly felt 
the heat of the sun, and was glad to hobble oil into the 
shade. 

“ Fuss is no word for her,^^ he said; “ though she^s a 
good gel, and means well — werry well.” 

After the old gardener had left her, Frances stood quite 
still; the sun beat upon her slight figure, upon her rip- 
pling, abundant dark-brown hair, and lighted up a face 
which was a little hard, a tiny bit soured, and scarcely 
young enough to belong to so slender and lithe a figure. 
The eyes, however, now were full of interest, and the lips 
melted into very soft curves as Frances turned her letter 
round, examined the postmarks, looked with interest at 
the seal, and studied the handwriting. Her careful peru- 
sal of the outside of the letter revealed at a glance how 
few she got, and how such a comparatively uninteresting 
event in most lives was regarded by her. 

“ This letter will keep,” she said to herself, slipping it 
into her pocket. “ 1 will hear what father has to tell me 
first. It is a great treat to have an unopened letter to look 
forward to. 1 wonder where this is from. Who can want 
to write to me from Australia? If Philip were alive — ” 
Here she paused and sighed. “ In the first place, 1 heard 
of his death three years ago; in the second, being alive, 
why should he write? It is ten years since we met.” 

Her face, which, was a very bright and practical one, 
notwithstanding those few hard lines, looked pensive for a 
moment. Then its habitual expression of cheerfulness re- 
turned to it, and when she entered the house Frances Kane 
looked as practical and business-like a woman as could be 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 7 

found anywhere in the whole of the large parish in the 
north of England where she and her father lived. 

Squire Kane, as he was called, came of an old family; 
and in the days before Frances was born he was supposed 
to be rich. Now, however, nearly all his lauds were mort- 
gaged, and it was with difficulty that the long, low, old- 
fashioned house, and lovely garden which surrounded it, 
could be kept together. No chance at all would the squire 
have had of spending his last days in the house where he 
was born, and where many generations of ancestors had 
lived and died, but for Frances. She managed the house 
and the gardens, and the few fields which were not let to 
surrounding farmers. She managed Watkins, too, and the 
under-gardener, and the two men-servants; and, most of 
all, she managed Squire Kane. 

He had been a hale and hearty man in his day, with a 
vigorous will of his own, and a marvelous and fatal facility 
for getting through money; but now he leaned on Frances, 
was guided by her in all things; never took an opinion or 
spent a shilling without her advice; and yet all the time he 
thought himself to be the ruler, and she the ruled. For 
Frances was very tactful, and if she governed with a rod of 
iron, she was clever enough to incase it well in silk. 

“ I want you, Frances,'^ called a rather querulous old 
voice. 

The squire was ensconced in the sunniest corner of the 
sunny old parlor; his feet were stretched out on a hassock; 
he wore a short circular cape over his shoulders, and a 
black velvet skull-cap was pushed a little crooked over his 
high bald forehead. He had aquiline features, an aristo- 
cratic mouth, and sunken but somewhat piercing eyes. As 
a rule his expression was sleepy, his whole attitude indo- 
lent; but now he was alert, his deep-set eyes were wide 
open and very bright, and when his daughter came in, he 
held out a somewhat trembling hand, and drew her to his 
side. 

“ Sit down, Frances — there, in the sun, it^s so chilly in 
the shade — donT get into that corner behind me, my dear; 
I want to look at you. What do you think? I have got a 
letter, and news — great news! It is not often that news 
comes to the Firs in these days. What do you think, 
Frances? But you will never guess. Ellen's child is com- 
ing to live with us!" 


8 


PRAN-CES KAPTE^S FORTUKE. 


“ What?’’ said Frances. “ What! Little Fluff we used 
to call her? 1 don’t understand you, father; surely Ellen 
would never part with her child. ” 

“ No, my dear, that is true. Ellen and her child were 
bound up in each other; but she is dead — died three months 
ago in India. 1 have just received a letter from that good- 
for-nothing husband of hers, and the child is to leave school 
and come here. Major Danvers can’t have her in India, 
he says, and her mother’s wish was — her mother’s last wish 
— that she should make her home with us. She will be 
here within a week after the receipt of this letter, Frances. 
I call it great news; fancy a young thing about the house 
again!” 

Frances Kane had dark, straight brows; they were drawn 
together now with a slight expression of surprise and pain. 

“ I am not so old, father,” she said; ‘‘ compared to you, 
I am quite young. I am only eight-and-twenty. ” 

“My dear,” said the squire, “ you were never young. 
You are a good woman, Frances, an excellent, well-mean- 
ing woman; but you were never either child or girl. Now, 
this little thing — how long is it since she and her mother 
were here, my love?” 

“ It was just before Cousin Ellen went to India,” re- 
sponded Frances, again knitting her brows, and casting 
back her memory. “Yes, it was six years ago; 1 remem- 
ber it, because . we planted the new asparagus bed that 
year. ” 

“ Ay, ay; and a very productive bed it turned out,” re- 
sponded the squire. “ Fluff was like a ball then, wasn’t 
she? — all curly locks, and dimples, and round cheeks, and 
big blue eyes like saucers! The merriest little kitten — she 
plagued me, but I confess I liked her. How old would she 
be now, Frances?” 

“About seventeen,” replied Frances. “Almost a 
grown-up girl; dear, dear, how time does fly! Well, fa- 
ther, I am glad you are pleased. I will read the letter, if 
you will let me, by and by, and we must consult as to what 
room to give the child. 1 hope she won’t find it very 
dull.” 

“Not she, my dear, not she. She was the giddiest mor- 
tal — always laughing, and singing, and skipping about in 
the sunshine. Dear heart! it will do me good to see any- 
thing so liyely again.” 


FRANCES KANE’s FORTUNE. 


9 


1 am glad she is coming/' repeated Frances, rising to 
her feet. “ Although you must remember, father, that 
six years make a change. Ellen may not be quite so kit- 
tenish and frolicsome now." 

“ Ellen!" repeated the squire; “ I'm not going to call 
the child anything so formal. Fluff she always was and 
will be with me — a kittenish creature with a kittenish 
name ; I used to tell her so, and 1 expect I shall again. ' ’ 

“ You forget that she has just lost her mother," said 
Frances. “ They loved each other dearly, and you can not 
expect her not to be changed. There is also another thing, 
father; I am sorry to have to mention it, but it is neces- 
sary. Does Major Danvers propose to give us an allow- 
ance for keeping his daughter here? Otherwise it will be 
impossible for us to have her except on a brief visit." 

The squire pulled himself with an effort out of his deep 
arm-chair. His face flushed, and his eyes looked angry. 

“ You are a good woman, Frances, but a bit hard," he 
said. “ You don't suppose that a question of mere money 
would keep Ellen's child away from the Firs? While I 
am here she is sure of a welcome. No, there was nothing 
said about money in this letter, but I have no doubt the 
money part is right enough. Now I think I'll go out for 
a stroll. The sun is going off the south parlor, and when- 
ever I get into the shade I feel chilly. If you'll give me 
your arm, my dear. I'll take a stroll before dinner. Dear, 
clear! it seems to me there isn't half the heat in the sun 
there used to be. Let's get up to the South Walk, 
Frances, and pace up and down by the ribbon border— it's 
fine and hot there — what I like. You don't wear a hat, 
my dear? quite right — let the sun warm you all it can." 


CHAPTER II. 

“this is wonderful." 

It was (|uite late on that same afternoon before Frances 
found a leisure moment to read her own letter. It was not 
forgotten as it lay in her pocket, but she was in no hurry 
to ascertain its contents. 

“ Until it is read it is something to look forward to," 
she said to herself; “afterward — oh, of course there can 
be nothing of special interest in it, " 


10 FKANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 

She sighed; strong and special interests had never come 
in her way. 

The afternoon which followed the receipt of the two 
letters was a specially busy one. The squire never grew 
tired of discussing the news which his own letter had 
brought him. He had a thousand conjectures which must 
be dwelt upon and entered into; how and when had Ellen 
Danvers died? what would the child Ellen be like? which 
bedroom would suit her best? would she like the South 
Walk as much as the old squire did himself? would she 
admire the ribbon border? would she appreciate the aspara- 
gus which she herself had seen planted? 

The old man was quite garrulous and excited, and 
Frances was pleased to see him so interested in anything. 
When she had walked with him for nearly an hour she was 
obliged to devote some time to Watkins in the vegetable 
garden; then came dinner; but after that meal there 
always was a lull in the day^s occupation for Frances, for 
the squire went to sleep over his pipe, and never cared to 
be aroused or spoken to until his strong coffee was brought 
to him at nine o’clock. 

On this particular evening Frances felt her heart beat 
with a pleased and quickened movement. She had her 
unopened letter to read. She would go to the rose arbor, 
and have a quiet time there while her father slept. She 
was very fond of Keats, and she took a volume of his poems 
under her arm, for, of course, the letter would not occupy 
her many moments. The rose arbor commanded a full 
view of the whole garden, and Frances made a graceful 
picture in her soft light-gray dress, as she stepped into it. 
She sat down in one of the wicker chairs, laid her copy of 
Keats on the rustic table, spread the bright shawl on her 
lap, and took the foreign letter out of her pocket. 

“It is sure to be nothing in the least interesting,” she 
said to herself. “ Still, there is some excitement about it 
till it is opened.” And as she spoke she moved to the 
door of the arbor. 

Once again she played with the envelope and examined 
the writing. Then . she drew a closely written sheet out of 
its inclosure, spread it open on her lap, and began to read. 

As she did so, swiftly and silently there rose into her 
cheeks a beautiful bloom. Her eyelids quivered, her hand 
shook; the bloom was succeeded by a pallor. With fever- 


FliANCES KANSAS FORTUNE. 


11 


ish haste her quick eyes flew over the paper. She turned 
the page and gasped slightly for breath. She raised her 
head, and her big, dark eyes were full of tears, and a radi- 
ant, tender smile parted her lips. 

“ Thank God!^" she said: “ oh, this is wonderful! Oh, 
thank God!’’ 

Once again she read the letter, twice, three times, four 
times. Then she folded it up, raised it to her lips, and 
kissed it. This time she did not return it to her pocket, 
but, opening her dress, slipped it inside, so that it lay 
against her heart. 

“ Miss Frances!” old Watkins was seen hobbling down 
the path. “ You hasn’t said what’s to be done with the 
bees. They are sure to swarm to-morrow, and — and — 
why, miss, 1 seem to have startled you like — ” 

“Oh, not at all, Watkins; I will come with you now, 
and we will make some arrangement about the bees.” 

Frances came out of the arbor. The radiant light was 
still in her eyes, a soft color mantled her cheeks, and she 
smiled like summer itself on the old man. 

He looked at her with puzzled, dull wonder and admira- 
tion. 

“ What’s come to Miss Frances?” he said to himself. 
“ She looks rare and handsome, and she’s none so old.” 

The question of the bees was attended to, and then 
Frances paced about in the mellow June twilight until it 
was time for her father to have his cofiee. She came in 
then, sat down rather in the shadow, and spoke abruptly. 
Her heart was beating with great bounds, and her voice 
sounded almost cold in her eflort to steady it. 

“ Father, I, too, have had a letter to-day.” 

“ Ay, ay, my love. I saw that the carrier brought two. 
Was it of any importance? If not, we might go on with 
our ‘ History of Greece.’ I was interested in where we left 
off last night. You might read to me for an hour before 
1 go to bed, Frances; unless, indeed, you have anything 
more to say about Flufl, dear little soul! Do you know, it 
occurred to me that we ought to get fresh curtains and 
knickknacks for her room? It ought to look nice for her, 
dear, bright little thing!” 

“ So it shall, father. ” There was no shade of impatience 
in Frances’s tone. “ We will talk of Fluff presently. But 


12 


FRANCES KANE’s FORTUNE. 


ifc SO happens that my letter was of importance. Father, 
you remember Philip Arnold?’^ 

“ Arnold — Arnold? Dimly, my dear, dimly. He was 
here once, wasnH he? I rather fancy that I heard of his 
death. What about him, Frances?^^ 

Frances placed her hand to her fast-beating heart. 
Strange — her father remembered dimly the man she had 
thought of, and dreamed of, and secretly mourned for for 
ten long years. 

“ Philip Arnold is not dead, she said, still trying to 
steady her voice. “ It was a mistake, a false rumor. He 
has explained it — my letter was from him.'’^ 

“ Really, my love? DoiPt you think there is a slight 
draught coming from behind that curtain? I am so sensi- 
tive to draughts, particularly after hot days. Oblige me, 
Frances, my dear, by drawing that curtain a little more to 
the right. Ah, that is better. So Arnold is alive. -To 
tell the truth, I don^t remember him very vividly, but of 
course I'm pleased to hear that he is not cut off in his 
youth. A tall, good-looking fellow, wasn't he? Well, 
well, this matter scarcely concerns us. How about the 
dimity in the room which will be Fluff's? My dear Fran- 
ces, what is the matter? I must ask you not to fidget so." 
Frances sprung suddenly to her feet. 

“ Father, you must listen to me. I am going to say 
something which will startle you. All these quiet years, 
all the time which has gone by and left only a dim mem- 
ory of a certain man to you, have been spent by me smoth- 
ering down regrets, stifling my youth, crushing what would 
have made me joyous and womanly — for Philip Arnold has 
not been remembered at all dimly by me, father, and when 
I heard of his death I lived through something which 
seemed to break the spring of energy and hope in me. I 
did not show it, and you never guessed, only you told me 
to-day that I had never been young, that I had never been 
either child or girl. Well, all that is over now, thank 
God! hope has come back to me, and I have got my lost 
youth again. You will have two young creatures about 
the house, father, and won't you like it?" 

‘‘ I don't know," said the squire. He looked up at his 
daughter in some alarm; her words puzzled him; he was 
suddenly impressed too by the brightness in her eyes, and 
the lovely coloring on her cheeks. 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 13 

“ What is all this excitement, Frances?’^ he said. 
“ Speak out; 1 never understand riddles.’^ 

Frances sat down as abruptly as she had risen. 

“ The little excitement was a prelude to my letter, dear 
father, she said, “ Philip is alive, and is coming to Eng- 
land immediately. Ten years ago he saw something in me 
— I was only eighteen then — he saw something which gave 
him pleasure, and — and — more. He says he gave me his 
heart ten years ago, and now he is coming to England to 
know if I will accept him as my husband. That is the 
news which my letter contains, father. You see, after all, 
my letter is important — as important as yours. 

“ Bless me!^^ said the squire. The expression of his 
face was not particularly gratified; his voice was not too 
cordial. “ A proposal of marriage to you, Frances? Bless 
me! — why, I can scarcely remember the fellow. He was 
here for a month, wasn't he? It was the summer before 
your mother died. I think it is rather inconsiderate of 
you to tell me news of this sort just before I go to bed, my 
dear. 1 don't sleep overwell, and it is bad to lie down with 
a worry on your pillow. I suppose you want me to answer 
the letter for you, Frances, but I'll do nothing of the kind, 
I can tell you. If you encouraged the young man long 
ago, you must get out of it as best you can now." 

“ Out of it, father? Oh, don't you understand?" 

“ Then you mean to tell me you care for him? You 
want to marry a fellow whom you haven't seen for ten 
years! And pray what am I to do if you go away and leave 
me?" 

“ Something must be managed," said Frances. 

She rose again. Her eyes no longer glowed happily; her 
lips, so sweet five minutes ago, had taken an almost bitter 
curve. 

“We will talk this over quietly in the morning, dear fa- 
ther," she said. “ I will never neglect you, never cast 
you aside; but a joy like this can not be put out of a life. 
That is, it can not be lightly put away. I have always en- 
deavored to do my duty — &od will help me to do it still. 
Now shall I ring for prayers?" 


14 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


CHAPTEK III. 

AFTER TEN YEARS. 

When Frances got to her room she took out pen and 
ink, and without a monient^s hesitation wrote an answer 
to her letter. 

“ My dear Philip, — I have not forgotten you — 1 re- 
member the old times, and all the things to which you 
alluded in your letter. I thought you were dead, and for 
the last three or four years always remembered you as one 
who had quite done with this world. Your letter startled 
me to-day, but your hope about me has been abundantly 
fulfilled, for I have never for a moment forgotten you. 
Philip, you have said very good words to me in your letter, 
and whatever happens, and however matters may be 
arranged between us in the future, 1 shall always treasure 
the words, and bless you for comforting my heart with 
them. But, Philip, ten years is a long time — in ten years 
we none of us stay still, and in ten years some of us grow 
older than others. I think I am one of those who grow 
old fast, and nothing would induce me to engage myseM to 
you, or even to tell you that I care for you, until after we 
have met again. When you reach England — I will send 
this letter to the address you give me in London — come 
down here. My dear and sweet mother is dead, but I dare 
say my father will find you a room at the Firs, and if not, 
there are good lodgings to be had at the White Hart in the 
village. If you are of the same mind when you reach Eng- 
land as you were when you wrote this letter, come down to 
the old place, and let us renew our acquaintance. If, 
after seeing me, you find I am not the Frances you had in 
your heart all these years, you have only to go away with- 
out speaking, and I shall understand. In any case, thank 
you for the letter, and believe me, yours faithfully, 

“Frances Kane.^^ 

This letter was quickly written, as speedily directed and 
stamped, and, wrapping her red shawl over her head, 
Frances herself went out in the silent night, walked half a 
mile to the nearest pillar-box, kissed the letter passionately 
before she dropped it through the slit, and then returned 


FKANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


15 


home, with the stars shining over her, and a wonderful 
new peace in her heart. Her father^s unsympathetic 
words were forgotten, and she lived over and over again 
on what her hungry heart had craved for all these years. 

The next morning she was up early; for the post of 
housekeeper, head-gardener, general accountant, factotum, 
amanuensis, reader, etc., to John Kane, Esq., of the Firs, 
was not a particularly light post, and required undivided 
attention, strong brains, and willing feet, from early morn- 
ing to late night every day of the week. Frances was by 
no means a grumbling woman, and if she did not go 
through her allotted tasks with the greatest possible cheer- 
fulness and spirit, she performed them ungrudgingly, and 
in a sensible, matter-of-fact style. 

On this particular morning, however, the joy of last 
night was still in her face; as she followed Watkins about, 
her merry laugh rang in the air; work was done in half 
the usual time, and never done better, and after breakfast 
she was at leisure to sit with her father and read to him as 
long as he desired it. 

“ Well, Frances,’^ he said, in conclusion, after the 
reader^’s quiet voice had gone on for over an hour and a 
half, “ you have settled that little affair of last night, I 
presume, satisfactorily. 1 have thought the whole matter 
over carefully, my love, and I have really come to the con- 
clusion that I can not spare you. You see you are, so to 
speak, necessary to me, dear. 1 thought I would mention 
this to you now, because in case you have not yet written 
to that young Arnold, it will simplify matters for you. I 
should recommend you not to enter on the question of your 
own feelings at all, but state the fact simply — ‘ My father 
can not spare me.^ 

“ 1 wrote to Philip last night,^^ said Frances. “ I have 
neither refused him nor accepted him. 1 have asked him 
on a visit here; can we put him up at the Firs?^^ 

“ Certainly, my love; that is a good plan. It will 
amuse me to have a man about the house again, and trav- 
elers are generally entertaining. 1 can also intimate to 
him, perhaps with more propriety than you can, how im- 
possible it would be for me to spare you. On the whole, 
my dear, 1 think you have acted with discernment. You 
don’t age well, Frances, and doubtless Arnold will placidly 
acquiesce in my decision. By all means have him here,” 


16 


FRANCES KANE’s FORTUNE. 


“ Only I think it right to mention to you, father — 
here Frances stood up and laid her long, slender white 
hand with a certain nervous yet imperative gesture on the 
table — “ 1 think it right to mention that if, after seeing 
me, Philip still wishes to make me his wife, 1 shall accept 
him.^^ 

“ My dear!^^ Squire Kane started. Then a satisfied 
smile played over his face. You say this as a sort of 
bravado, my dear. But we really need not discuss this 
theme; it positively wearies me. Have you yet made up 
your mind, Frances, what room Ellen’s dear child is to 
occupy?” 


CHAPTER IV. 

FLUFF. 

The day on which Ellen Danvers arrived at the Firs was 
long remembered, all over the place, as the hottest which 
had been known in that part of the country for many a 
long year. It was the first week of July, and the sun 
blazed fiercely and relentlessly — not the faintest little 
zephyr of a breeze stirred the air — in the middle of the 
day, the birds altogether ceased singing, and the Firs, lying 
in its sheltered valley, was hushed into a hot, slumberous 
quiet, during which not a sound of any sort was audible. 

Even the squire preferred a chair in the south parlor, 
which was never a cool room, and into which the sun 
poured, to venturing abroad; even he shuddered at the 
thought of the South Walk to-day. He was not particu- 
larly hot — he was too old for that — but the great heat 
made him feel languid, and presently he closed his eyes 
and fell into a doze. 

Frances, who in the whole course of her busy life never 
found a moment for occasional dozes, peeped into the 
room, smiled with satisfaction when she saw him, tripped 
lightly across the fioor to steal a pillow comfortably under 
his white head, arranged the window-curtains so as to shade 
his eyes, and then ran upstairs with that swift and wonder- 
fully light movement which was habitual to her. She had 
a great deal to do, and she was not a person who was ever 
much affected by the rise or fall of the temperature. First 
of all, she paid a visit to a charming little room over the 
porch. It had lattice windows, which opened like doors. 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


17 


and all round the sill, and up the sides, and over the top 
of the window, monthly roses and jasmine, wistaria and 
magnolia, climbed. A thrush had built its nest in the 
honeysuckle over the porch window, and there was a faint 
sweet twittering sound heard there now, mingled with the 
perfume of the roses and jasmine. The room inside was 
all white, but daintily relieved here and there with touches 
of pale blue, in the shape of bows and drapery. The room 
was small, but the whole effect was light, cool, pure. The 
pretty bed looked like a nest, and the room, with its quaint 
and lovely window, somewhat resembled a bower. 

Frances looked round it with pride, gave one or two fin- 
ishing touches to the fiowers which stood in pale -blue vases 
on the dressing-table, then turned away with a smile on 
her lips. There was another room just beyond, known in 
the house as the guest-chamber proper. It was much more 
stately and cold, and was furnished with very old dark 
mahogany; but it, too, had a lovely view over the peaceful 
homestead, and Frances’s eyes brightened as she reflected 
how she and Ellen would transform the room with heaps 
of flowers, and make it gay and lovely for a much-honored 
guest. 

She looked at her watch, uttered a hurried exclamation, 
fled to her own rather insignificant little apartment, and 
five minutes later ran down-stairs, looking very fresh, and 
girlish, and pretty, in a white summer dress. She took an 
umbrella from the stand in the hall, opened it to protect 
her head, and walked fast up the winding avenue toward 
the lodge gates. 

“ I hear some wheels. Miss Frances,” said Watkins’s old 
wife, hobbling out of the house. “ Eh, but it is a hot day; 
we’ll have thunder afore night, I guess. Eh, Miss Fran- 
ces, but you do look well, surely.” 

“I feel it,” said Frances, with a very bright smile. 
“Ah, there’s my little cousin — poor child! how hot she 
must be. Well, Fluff, so here you are, back with your old 
Fanny again!” 

There was a cry— half of rapture, half of pain — from a 
very small person in the lumbering old trap. The horse 
was drawn up with a jerk, and a girl, with very little of 
the woman about her, for she was still all curls, and curves, 
and child-like roundness, sprung lightly out of the trap, 
and put her arms round Frances’s neck. 


18 


FRANCES KANE’ 8 FORTUNE. 


“ Oh, Fan, I am glad to see you again! Here I am 
back just the same as ever; I haven't grown a bit, and I'm 
as much a child as ever. How is your father.? 1 was 
always so fond of him. Is he as faddy as of old? That's 
right; my mission in life is to knock fads out of people. 
Frances dear, why do you look at me in that perplexed 
way? Oh, I suppose because I'm in white. But I couldn't 
wear black on a day like this, as it wouldn't make mother 
any happier to know that every breath I drew was a tort- 
ure. There, we won't talk of it. I have a black sash in 
my pocket; it's all crumpled, but I'll tie it on, if you'll 
help me. Frances dear, you never did think, did you, that 
trouble would come to me? but it did. Fancy Fluff and 
trouble spoken of in the same breath; it's like putting a 
weight of care on a butterfly; it isn't fair — you don't think 
it fair, do you. Fan?” 

The blue eyes were full of tears; the rosy baby lips 
pouted sorrowfully. 

“We won't talk of it now, at any rate, darling,” said 
Frances, stooping and kissing the little creature with much 
affection. 

Ellen brightened instantly. 

“ Of course we won't. It's delicious coming here; how 
wise it was of mother to send me! I shall love being with 
you more than anything. Why, Frances, you don't look 
a day older than when I saw you last.” 

“ My father says,” returned Frances, “ that I age very 
quickly. ” 

“ But you don't, and I'll tell him so. Oh, no, he's not 
going to say those rude, unpleasant things when I'm by. 
How old are you. Fan, really? I forget.” 

“ I am twenty-eight, dear.” 

“ Are you?” 

Fluff's blue eyes opened very wide. 

“ You don't look old, at any rate,” she saia presently. 
“ And 1 should judge from your face you didn't feel it.” 

The ancient cab, which contained Ellen's boxes and 
numerous small possessions, trundled slowly down the ave- 
nue; the girls followed it arm in arm. They made a pretty 
picture — both faces were bright, both pairs of eyes sparkled, 
their white dresses touched, and the dark, earnest, and 
sweet eyes of the one were many times turned with un- 


FKANCES KANE's FOKTUKE. 


19 


feigaed admiration to the bewitchingly round and baby 
face of the other. 

“ She has the innocent eyes of a child of two/^ thought 
Frances. “ Poor little Fluff ! And yet sorrow has touched 
even her!’^ 

Then her pleasant thoughts vanished, and she uttered 
an annoyed exclamation. 

“ What does Mr. Spens want? Why should he trouble 
my father to-day of all days?’^ 

“ What is the matter, Frances?^^ 

“ That man in the gig,^^ said Frances. “ Do you see 
him? Whenever he comes, there is worry; it is unlucky 
his appearing just when you come to us. Fluff. But never 
mind; why should I worry you? Let us come into the 
house. 

At dinner that day Frances incidentally asked her father 
what Mr. Spens wanted. 

“ All the accounts are perfectly straight, she said. 
“ What did he come about? and he stayed for some time.-’' 

The slow blood rose into the old squire's face. 

“ Business," he said; “ a little private matter for my 
own ear. I like Spens; he is a capital fellow, a thorough 
man of business, with no humbug about him. By the 
way, Frances, he does not approve of our selling the fruit, 
and he thinks we ought to make more of the ribbon bor- 
der. He says we have only got the common yellow calce- 
olarias — he does not see a single one of the choicer kinds." 

“Indeed!" said Frances. She could not help a little 
icy tone coming into her voice. “ Fluff, won't you have 
some cream with your strawberries? — 1 did not know, 
father, that Mr. Spens had anything to say of our garden." 

“ Only an opinion, my dear, and kindly meant. Now, 
Fluff " — the squire turned indulgently to his little favorite 
— “ do you think Frances ought to take unjust prejudices?" 

“But she doesn't," said Fluff. “She judges by in- 
stinct, and so do I. Instinct told her to dislike Mr. Spens’ 
back as he sat in his gig, and so do 1 dislike it. I hate 
those round fat backs and short necks like his, and I hate 
of all things that little self-satisfied air." 

“ Oh, you may hate in that kind of way if you like," 
said the squire. “ Hatred from a little midget like you is 
very different from Frances's sober prejudice. Besides, 
she knows Mr. Spens; he has been our excellent man of 


^0 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


business for years. But come. Fluff, I am not going to 
talk over weighty matters with you. Have you brought 
your guitar? If so, we^ll go into the south parlor and have 
some music. 


CHAPTER V. 

“ FRANCES, YOU ARE CHANGED!^" 

“ One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight — good — 
nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen — excellent! 
Oh, how out of breath I am, and how hot it is! Is that 
you, Frances? See, IVe been skipping just before the 
south parlor window to amuse the squire for the last hour. 
He has gone to sleep now, so I can stop. Where are you 
going? How nice you look! Gray suits you. Oh, Frances, 
what extravagance ! You have retrimmed that pretty shady 
hat! But it does look well. Now where are you off to?^^ 
“ I thought 1 would walk up the road a little way,^^ said 
Frances. Her manner was not quite so calm and assured 
as usual. “ Our old friend Philip Arnold is coming to- 
night, you know, and 1 thought I would like to meet him.^^ 
“ May I come with you? I know I^m in a mess, but 
what matter? He’s the man about whom all the fuss is 
made, isn’t he?” 

Frances blushed. 

What do you mean, dear?” she asked. 

“ Oh, don’t I know? 1 heard you giving directions 
about his room, and didn’t I see you walking round and 
round the garden for nearly two hours to-day choosing all 
the sweetest things — moss roses, and sweetbrier, and 
sprays of clematis? Of course there’s a fuss made about 
him, though nothing is said. I know what I shall find 
him — There, I’m not going to say it — I would not vex 
you for worlds. Fan dear. ” 

Frances smiled. 

I must start now, dear,” she said, “ or he will have 
reached the house before 1 leave it. Do you want to come 
with me. Fluff? You may if you like.” 

“ No, I won’t. I’m ever so tired, and people who are 
fussed about are dreadfully uninteresting. Do start for 
your walk, Frances, or you won’t be in time to welcome 
your hero.” 


FKANCES KANE'S FOKTUNE. 21 

Frances started off at once. She was amused at Fluff ^s 
words. 

“ It is impossible for the little creature to guess any- 
thing/’ she said to herself; “ that would never do. Philip 
should be quite unbiased. It would be most unfair for 
him to come here as anything but a perfectly free man. 
Ten years ago he said he loved me; but am I the same 
Frances? I am older; father says I am old for twenty- 
eight — then I was eighteen. Eighteen is a beautiful age 
— a careless and yet a grave age. Girls are so full of de- 
sires then; life stretches before them like a brilliant line of 
light. Everything is possible; they are not really at the 
top of the hill, and they feel so fresh and buoyant that it 
is a pleasure to climb. There is a feeling of morning in 
the air. At eighteen it is a good thing to be alive. Now, 
at eight-and-twenty one has learned to take life hard; a 
girl is old then, and yet not old enough. She is apt to be 
over worried; I used to be, but not since his letter came, 
and to-night I think I am back at eighteen. I hope he 
won’t find me much altered. I hope this dress suits me. 
It would be awful now, when the cup is almost at my lips, 
if anything dashed it away; but, no! God has been very 
good to me, and I will have faith in Him. ” 

All this time Frances was walking up-hill. She had now 
reached the summit of a long incline, and, looking ahead 
of her, saw a dusty traveler walking quickly with the free- 
and-easy stride of a man who is accustomed to all kinds of 
athletic exercises. 

“ That is Philip,” said Frances. 

Her heart beat almost to suffocation; she stood still for 
a moment, then walked on again more slowly, for her joy 
made her timid. 

The stranger came on. As he approached he took off 
his hat, revealing a very tanned face and light short hair; 
his well-opened eyes were blue; he had a rather drooping 
mustache, otherwise his face was clean shaven. If ten 
years make a difference in a woman, they often effect a 
greater change in a man. When Arnold last saw Frances 
he was twenty-two; he was very slight then, his mustache 
was little more than visible, and his complexion was too 
fair. Now he was bronzed and broadened. When he cann' 
up to Frances and. took her hand, she knevv that not only 


22 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


she herself, but all her little world, would acknowledge 
her lover to be a very handsome man. 

“ Is that really you, Frances?^ ^ he began. 

His voice was thoroughly manly, and gave the girl who 
had longed for him for ten years an additional thrill of sat- 
isfaction. 

“ Is that really you? Let me hold your hand for an in- 
stant; Frances you are changed!’^ 

“ Older, you mean, Philip. 

She was blushing and trembling — she could not hide this 
first emotion. 

He looked very steadily into her face, then gently with- 
drew his hand. 

‘‘ Age has nothing to do with it,^^ he said. “ You are 
changed, and yet there is some of the old Frances left. In 
the old days you had a petulant tone when people said 
things which did not quite suit you; I hope — 1 trust — it 
has not gone. I am not perfect, and I don^t like perfec- 
tion. Yes, I see it is still there. Frances, it is good to 
come back to the old country, and to you.^^ 

“ You got my letter, Philip?’^ 

“ Of course; I answered it. Were you not expecting 
me this evening?^^ 

“Yes; 1 came out here on purpose to meet yon. What 
I should have said, Philip, was to ask you if you agreed to 
my proposal. 

“ And what was that?’^ 

“ That we shojild renew our acquaintance, but for the 
present both be free. 

Arnold stopped in his walk, and again looked earnestly 
at the slight girl by his side. Her whole face was eloquent 
— her eyes were bright with suppressed feeling, but her 
words were measured and cold. Arnold was not a bad 
reader of character. Inwardly he smiled. 

“ Frances was a pretty girl,'^ he said to himself; “ but 
I never imagined she would grow into such a beautiful 
woman. 

Aloud he made a quiet reply. 

“We will discuss this matter to-morrow, Frances. Now 
tell me about your father. I was greatly distressed to see 
by your letter that your mother is dead.'’'’ 

“ She died eight years ago, Philip. 1 am accustomed 
to the woild without her now; at first it was a terrible 


PKANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


23 


place to me. Here we are, in the old avenue again. l)o 
you remember it? Let us get under the shade of the elms. 
Oh, Fluff, you quite startled me!^^ 

Fluff, all in white — she was never seen in any other 
dress, unless an occasional black ribbon was introduced for 
the sake of propriety — came panting up the avenue. Her 
face was flushed, her lips parted, her words came out fast 
and eagerly : 

“ Quick, Frances, quick I The squire is ill; I tried to 
awake him, and I couldn’t. Oh, he looks so dreadful!” 

“ Take care of Philip, and I will go to him,” said 
Frances. “ Don’t be frightened. Fluff; my father often 
sleeps heavily. Philip, let me introduce my little cousin, 
Ellen Danvers. Now, Nelly, be on your best behavior, 
for Philip is an old friend, and a person of importance. 

“ But we had better come back to the house with you, 
Frances,” said Arnold. “ Your father may be really ill. 
Miss — Miss Danvers seems alarmed.” 

“ But I am not,” said Frances, smiling first at Philip 
and then at her little cousin. “ Fluff — we call this child 
Fluff as a pet name — does not know my father as I do. 
He often sleeps heavily, and when he does his face gets red, 
and he looks strange. I know what to do with him. 
Please don’t come in, either of you, for half an hour. Sup- 
per will be ready then.” 

She turned away, walking rapidly, and a bend in the 
avenue soon hid her from view. 

Little Ellen had not yet quite recovered her breath. She 
stood holding her hand to her side, and slightly panting. 

‘‘ You seem frightened,” said Arnold, kindly. 

“It is not that,” she replied. Her breath came 
quicker, almost in gasps. Suddenly she burst into tears. 
“ It’s all so dreadful,” she said. 

“ What do you mean?” said Arnold. 

To his knowledge he had never seen a girl cry in his life. 
He had come across very few girls while in Australia. One 
or two women he had met, but they were not particularly 
worthy specimens of their sex; he had not admired them, 
and had long ago come to the conclusion that the only 
perfect, sweet, and fair girl in existence was Frances 
Kane. When he saw Fluff’s tears he discovered that he 
was mistaken — other women were sweet and gracious, 
other girls were lovable. 


u 


FRANCES KANE’S FORTUNE. 


“ Do tell me what is the matter/^ he said, in a tone of 
deep sympathy; for these fast-flowing tears alarmed him. 

“Dm not fit for trouble, said Fluff. “ I’m afraid of 
trouble, that’s it. I’m really like the butterflies — 1 die if 
there’s a cloud. It is not long since 1 lost my mother, and 
— ^how, now — I know the squire is much more ill than 
Frances thinks. Oh, I know it! What shall I do if the 
squire really gets very ill — if he — he dies? Oh, I’m so 
awfully afraid of death!” 

Her cheeks paled visibly, her large, wide-open blue eyes 
dilated; she was acting no part — her terror and distress 
were real. A kind of instinct told Arnold what to say to 
her. 

“ You are standing under these great shady trees,” he 
said. “ Come out into the sunshine. You are young and 
apprehensive. Frances is much more likely to know the 
truth about Squire Kane than you are. She is not 
alarmed; you must not be, unless there is really cause. 
Now is not this better? What a lovely rose! Do you 
know, I have not seen this old-fashioned kind of cabbage 
rose for over ten years!” 

“ Then I will pick one for you,” said Fluff. 

She took out a scrap of cambric, dried her eyes like 
magic, and began to flit about the garden, humming a 
light air under her breath. Her dress was of an old- 
fashioned sort of book-muslin — it was made full and billowy; 
her figure was round and yet lithe, her hair was a mass of 
frizzy soft rings, and when the dimples played in her 
cheeks, and the laughter came back to her intensely blue 
eyes, Arnold could not help saying — and there was admira- 
tion in his voice and gaze: 

“ What fairy godmother named you so appropriately?” 

“ What do you mean? My name is Ellen.” 

“ Frances called you Fluff; Thistledown would be as ad- 
mirably appropriate. ’ ’ 

While he spoke Fluff was handing him a rose. He took 
it, and placed it in his button-hole. He was not very skill- 
ful in arranging it, and she stood on tiptoe to help him. 
Just then Frances came out of the house. The sun was 
shining full on the pair; Fluff was laughing, Arnold was 
making a complimentary speech. Frances did not know 
why a shadow seemed to fall between her and the sunshine 
which surrounded them. She walked slowly across the 


FRANCES KANE’S FORTUNE. 


25 


grass to meet them. Her light dress was a little long, and 
it trailed after her. She had put a bunch of Scotch roses 
into her belt. Her step grew slower and heavier as she 
walked across the smoothly kept lawn, but her voice was 
just as calm and clear as usual as she said gently: 

“ Supper is quite ready. You must be so tired and 
hungry, Philip. 

“ Not at he said, leaving Fluff and coming up to 
her side. “ This garden rests me. To be back here again 
is perfectly delightful. To appreciate an English garden 
and English life, and — and English ladies — here his eyes 
foil for a brief moment on Fluff — one most have lived for 
ten years in the backwoods of Australia. How is your 
father, Frances? I trust Miss Danvers had no real cause 
for alarm?’^ 

“ Oh, no; Ellen is a fanciful little creature. He did 
sleep rather heavily. 1 think it was the heat; but he is all 
right now, and waiting to welcome you in the supper-room. 
Won’t you let me show you the way to your room? You 
would like to wash your hands before eating.” 

Frances and Arnold walked slowly in the direction of the 
house. Fluff had left them; she was engaged in an eager 
game of play with an overgrown and unwieldly pup and a 
Persian kitten. Arnold had observed with some surprise 
that she had forgotten even to inquire for Mr. Kane. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“l WILL NOT SELL THE FIRS.” 

On the morning after Arnold’s arrival the squire called 
his daughter into the south parlor. 

“ My love,” he said, “ I want a word with 3 ^ou.” 

As a rule Frances was very willing to have words with 
her father. She was always patient and gentle and sweet 
with him; but she would have been more than human if 
she had not cast some wistful glances into the garden, where 
Philip was waiting for her. He and she also had some- 
thing to talk about that morning, and why did Fluff go out, 
and play those bewitching airs softly to herself on the 
guitar? And why did she sing in that wild-bird voice of 
hers? and why did Philip pause now and then in his walk, 
as though he was listening — which indeed he was, for it 
would be difficult for any one to shut their ears to such 


26 


FEANCES KANE^S FOETUKE. 


light and harmonious sounds. Frances hated herself for 
feeling jealous. No — of course she was not jealous; she 
could not stoop to anything so mean. Poor darling little 
Fluff! and Philip, her true lover, who had remained con- 
stant to her for ten long years. 

With a smile on her lips, and the old look of patience in 
her steady eyes, she turned her back to the window and 
prepared to listen to what the squire had to say. 

“ The fact is, Frances — he began. “ Sit down, my 
dear, sit down; I hate to have people standing, it fidgets 
me so. Oh! you want to be out with that young man; 
well. Fluff will amuse him — dear little thing. Fluff' — most 
entertaining. Has a way of soothing a man’s nerves, which 
few women possess. You, my dear, have often a most 
irritating way with you; not that 1 complain — we all have 
our faults. You inherit this intense overwrought sort of 
manner from your mother, Frances.” 

Frances, who was standing absolutely quiet and still 
again, smiled slightl}". 

“ You had something to talk to me about,” she said, in 
her gentlest of voice. 

“ To be sure I had. 1 can tell you I have my worries — 
wonder ITn alive — and since your mother died never a bit 
of sympathy do I get from mortal. There, read that let- 
ter from Spens, and see what you make of it. Impudent? 
uncalled for? I should think so; but I really do wonder 
what these lawyers are coming to. Soon thereTl be no 
distinctions between man and man anywhere, when a beg- 
garly country lawyer dares to write to a gentleman like 
myself in that strain. But read the letter, Frances; you’ll 
have to see Spens this afternoon. Fm not equal to it.” 

“ Let me see what Mr. Spens says,” answered Frances. 

She took the lawyer’s letter from the squire’s shaking 
old fingers, and opened it. Then her face became very 
pale, and as her eyes glanced rapidly over the contents, she 
could not help uttering a stifled exclamation. 

“ Yes, no wonder you’re in a rage,” said the squire. 
“ The impudence of that letter beats everything.” 

“ But what does Mr. Spens mean?” said Frances. “ He 
says here — unless you can pay the six thousand pounds owing 
within three months, his client has given him instructions 
to sell the Firs. What does he mean, father? I never 
knew that we owed a penny. Oh, this is awful!” 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


27 


“ And how do you suppose we have lived?' ^ said the 
squire, who was feeling all that undue sense of irritation 
which guilty people know so well. “ How have we had 
our bread and butter? How has the house been kept up? 
How have the wages been met? I suppose you thought 
that that garden of yours — those vegetables and fruit — have 
kept everything going? That's all a woman knows. Be- 
sides, I've been unlucky — two speculations have failed — 
every penny 1 put in lost in them. Now, what's the mat- 
ter, Frances? You have a very unpleasant manner of 
staring. " 

“ There was my mother's money," said Frances, who 
was struggling hard to keep herself calm. “That was 
always supposed to bring in something over two hundred 
pounds a year. 1 thought — 1 imagined — that with the 
help I was able to give from the garden and the poultry 
yard that we — we lived within our means." 

Her lips trembled slightly as she spoke. Fluff was play- 
ing “ Sweethearts " on her guitar, and Arnold was leaning 
with his arms folded against the trunk of a wide-spreading 
oak-tree. Was he listening to Fluff, or waiting for 
Frances? She felt like a person struggling through a hor- 
rible nightmare. 

“ I thought we lived within our means," she said, faintly. 

“Just like you — women are always imagining things. 
We have no means to live on; your mother's money has 
long vanished — it was lost in that silver mine in Peru. 
And the greater part of the six thousand pounds lent by 
Spens has one way or another pretty nearly shared the 
same fate. I've been a very unlucky man, Frances, and if 
your mother were here, she'd pity me. I've had no one to 
sympathize with me since her death. " 

“ 1 do, father," said his daughter. She went up and 
put her arms round his old neck. “ It was a shock, and 
I felt half stunned. But I fully sympathize." 

“Not that I am going to sell the Firs," said the squire, 
not returning Frances's embrace, but allowing her to take 
his limp hand within her own. “ No, no; I've no idea of 
that. Spens and his client, whoever he is, must wait 
for their money, and that's what you have got to see him 
about, Frances. Come, now, you must make the best 
terms you can with Spens — a woman can do what she likes 
with a man when she knows how to manage." 


2S FEANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 

“ But what am I to say, father 

“ Say? Why, that^s your lookout. Never heard of a 
woman yet who couldn^t find words. Say? Anything in 
the world you please, provided you give him to clearly to 
understand that come what may 1 will not sell the Firs. 

Frances stood still for two whole minutes. During this 
time she was thinking deeply — so deeply that she forgot the 
man who was waiting outside — she forgot everything but 
the great and terrible fact that, notwithstanding all her 
care and all her toil, beggary was staring them in the face. 

“ 1 will see Mr. Spens,^^ she said at last, slowly; “it is 
not likely that 1 shall be able to do much. If you have 
mortgaged the Firs to this client of Mr. Spens, he will 
most probably require you to sell, in order to realize his 
money; but 1 will see him, and let you know the result. ” 

“ You had better order the gig, then, and go now; he is 
sure to be in at this hour. Oh, you want to talk to the 
man that you fancy is in love with you; but lovers can 
wait, and business can’t. Understand clearly, once for 
all, Frances, that if the Firs is sold, I die.” 

“ Dear father,” said Frances — again she took his un- 
willing hand in hers — “ do you suppose 1 want the Firs to 
be sold? Don’t I love every stone of the old place, and 
every flower that grows here? If words can save it, they 
won’t be wanting on my part. But you know better than 
I do that I am absolutely powerless in the matter.” 

She went out of the room, and the squire sat with the 
sun shining full on him, and grumbled. What was a blow 
to Frances, a blow which half stunned her in its suddenness 
and unexpectedness, had come gradually to the squire. 
For. years past he knew that while his daughter was doing 
her utmost to make two ends meet — was toiling early and 
late to bring in a little money to help the slender household 
purse — she was only postponing an evil day which could 
never be averted. From the first. Squire Kane in his own 
small way had been a speculator — never at any time had 
he been a lucky one, and now he reaped the results. 

After a time he pottered to his feet, and strolled out 
into the garden. Frances was nowhere visible, but Arnold 
and Ellen were standing under a shady tree, holding an 
animated conversation together. 

“ Here comes the squire,” said FluS, in a tone of de-. 


FRANCES Kane’s fortune. 29 

light. She flew to his side, put her hand through his arm, 
and looked coaxingly and lovingly into his face. 

“ I am so glafd you are not asleep,” she said. “ I 
don’t like you when you fall asleep and get so red in the 
face; you frightened me last night — I was terrified — I cried. 
Didn’t 1, Mr. Arnold?” 

“Yes,” replied Arnold, “you seemed a good deal 
alarmed. Do you happen to know where your daughter 
is, Mr. Kane?” 

“ Yes; she is going into Martinstown on business for 
me. Ah, yes. Fluff, you always were a sympathizing little 
woman.” Here the squire patted the dimpled hand; he 
was not interested in Philip Arnold’s inquiries. 

“ If Frances is going to Martinstown, perhaps she will 
let me accompany her,” said Arnold. “ I will go and look 
for her.” 

He did not wait for the squire’s mumbling reply, but 
started olf quickly on his quest. 

“Frances does want the gift of sympathy,” said the 
squire, once more addressing himself with affection to 
Ellen. “ Do you know, Flutf, that 1 am in considerable 
difficulty; in short, that I am going through just now a 
terrible trouble — oh, nothing that you can assist me in, 
dear. Still, one does want a little sympathy, and poor 
dear Frances, in that particular, is sadly, painfully defi- 
cient, ” 

“ Are you really in great trouble?” said Fluff. She raised 
her eyes with a look of alarm. 

“ Oh, 1 am dreadfully sorry! Shall 1 play for you, 
shall I sing something? Let me bring this arm-chair out 
here by this pear-tree; I’ll get my guitar; I’ll sing you 
anything you like— ‘ Kobin Adair,’ or ‘ Auld Kobin Gray,’ 
or ‘ A Man’s a Man;’ you know how very fond you are of 
Burns.” 

“You are a good little girl,” said the squire. “ Place 
the arm-chair just at that angle, my love. Ah, that’s 
good! 1 get the full power of the sun here. Somehow it 
seems to me. Fluff, that the summers are not half as warm 
as they used to be. Now play ‘ Bonnie Dundee’ — it will 
be a treat to hear you. ” 

Fluff fingered her guitar lovingly. Then she looked up 
into the wizened, discontented face of the old man opposite 
to her. 


30 


FRANCES KANE's FORTUNE. 


“ Play/^ said the sc^uire. “ Why don’t you begin?” 

“ Only that I’m thinking/’ said the spoiled child, tap- 
ping her foot petulantly. “ Squire, I can’t help saying it 
— 1 don’t think you are quite fair to Frances.” 

“ Eh, what?” said Squire Kane, in a voice of astonish- 
ment. “ Highty-tighty, what next! Go on with your 
playing, miss.” 

“ No, 1 won’t! It isn’t right of you to say she’s not 
sympathetic. ” 

“ Not right of me! What next, I wonder! Let me tell 
you. Fluff, that although you’re a charming little chit, 
you are a very saucy one.” 

“ I don’t care whether I’m saucy or not. You ought 
not to be unfair to Frances. ” 

These rebellious speeches absolutely made the squire sit 
upright in his chair. 

“ What do you know about it?” he queried. 

“ Because she is sympathetic; she has the dearest, ten- 
derest, most unselfish heart in the world. Oh, she’s a 
darling! I love her!” 

“ Go on with your playing. Fluff,” said the squire. 

Two bright spots of surprise and anger burned on his 
cheeks, but there was also a reflective look on his face. 

Fluff’s eyes blazed. Her fair cheeks crimsoned, and she 
tried to thunder out a spirited battle march on her poor 
little guitar. 


CHAPTER Vll. 

NO OTHER WAY. 

Arnold went quickly round to the back of the house. 
Although he had been absent for ten years, he still remem- 
bered the ways of the old place, and knew where to find 
the almost empty stables, and the coach-houses which no 
longer held conveyances. 

“ This place requires about four thousand pounds a year 
to keep it up properly,” murmured Arnold to himself, 
“ and from the looks of things I should say these dear 
good folks had not as many hundreds. I wonder if Frances 
will have me — I wonder if — ” here he paused. 

His heart was full of Frances this morning, but it was 
also full of a strange kind of peace and thanksgiving. He 
was not greatly anxious; he had a curious sensation of being 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


31 


rested all over. The fact was, he had gone through the 
most hair-breadth escapes, the most thrilling adventures, 
during the last ten years. He had escaped alive, at the 
most fearful odds. He had known hunger and thirst; he 
had been many, many times face to face with death. For 
more than half the time of his exile things had gone against 
him, and hard indeed had been his lot; then the tide had 
slowly turned, and after five more years Philip Arnold had 
been able to return to his native land, and had felt that it 
was allowed to him to think with hope of the girl he had 
always loved. 

He was in the same house with Frances now. She had 
not yet promised to be his, but he did not feel anxious. 
The quiet of the English home, the sweet, old-fashioned 
peace of the garden, the shade under the trees, the songs 
. of the old-fashioned home birds, the scent of the old-fash- 
ioned home flowers, and the bright eyes and gentle voice of 
the prettiest little English girl he had ever seen, had a mes- 
merizing effect upon him. He wanted Frances; Frances 
was his one and only love; but he felt no particular desire 
to hurry on matters, or to force an answer from her until 
she was ready to give it. 

He strolled into the stable-yard, where Pete, the under- 
gardener, message-boy and general factotum, a person 
whom Watkins, the chief manager, much bullied, was har- 
nessing a shaggy little pony to a very shaky-looking market 
cart. The cart wanted painting, the pony grooming, and 
the harness undoubtedly much mending. 

“ What are you doing, Pete?’^ said Arnold. 

“ This yer is for Miss Frances, drawled the lad. 
“ She's going into Martinstown, and I'm g wine with her to 
hold the pony. " 

“No, you're not," said Arnold. “ I can perform that 
office. Go and tell her that I'm ready when she is." 

Pete sauntered away, but before he reached the back en- 
trance to the house Frances came out. She walked slowly, 
and when she saw Philip her face did not light up. He 
was startled, not at an obvious, but an indefinable change in 
her. He could not quite tell where it lay, only he sud- 
denly knew that she was quite eight-and-twenty, that there 
were hard lines round the mouth which at eighteen had 
been very curved and beautiful. He wished she would 
wear the pretty hat she had on last night; he did not think 


32 


FRANCES KANE’s FORTUNE. 


that the one she had on was particularly becoming. Still, 
she was his Frances, the girl whose face had always risen 
before him during the five years of horror through which 
he had lived, and during the five years of hope which had 
succeeded them. 

He came forward and helped her to get into the little 
old-fashioned market cart. Then, as she gathered up the 
reins, and the pony was moving off, he prepared to vault 
into the vacant seat by her side. She laid her hand on it, 
however, and turned to him a very sad and entreating 
face. 

“ I think you had better not, Philip, she said. “It 
will be very hot in Martinstown to-day. I am obliged to 
go on a piece of business for my father. 1 am going to see 
Mr. Spens, our lawyer, and I may be with him for some 
time. It would be stupid for you to wait outside with the 
pony. Pete had better come with me. Go back to the 
shade of the garden, Philip. I hear Fluff now playing her 
guitar. 

“lam going with you,’^ said Arnold. “Forgive me, 
Frances, but you are talking nonsense. I came here to be 
with you, and do you suppose I mind a little extra sun- 
shine?^ ^ 

“ But I am a rather dull companion to-day,^^ she said, 
still objecting. “lam very much obliged to you — you are 
very kind, but I really have nothing to talk about. I am 
worried about a bit of business of father’s. It is very good 
of you, Philip, but I would really rather you did not come 
into Martinstown. ” 

“ If that is so, of course it makes a difference,” said 
Arnold. He looked hurt. “ I won’t bother you,” he 
said. “ Come back quickly. I suppose we can have a 
talk after dinner?” 

“ Perhaps so; I can’t say. I am very much worried 
about a piece of business of my father’s.” 

“ Pete, take your place behind your mistress,” said 
Arnold. 

He raised his hat, there was a fiush on his face as Frances 
drove down the shady lane. 

“ I have offended him,” she said to herself; “ I suppose 
1 meant to. I don’t see how 1 can have anything to say to 
him now; he can’t marry a beggar; and, besides, I must 
somehow or other support my father. Yes, it’s at an end 


PRANCES pane’s FORTUNE. 


33 


— the brightest of dreams. The cup was almost at my 
lips, and i did not think God would allow it to be dashed 
away so quickly. 1 must manage somehow to make Philip 
cease to care for me, but 1 think I am the most miserable 
woman in the world.'’ 

Frances never forgot that long, hot drive into Martins- 
town. She reached the lawyer’s house at a little before 
noon, and the heat was then so great that when she found 
herself in his office she nearly fainted. 

“ You look really ill. Miss Kane,” said the man of busi- 
ness, inwardly commenting under his breath on how very 
rapidly Frances was ageing. “ Oh, you have come from 
your father; yes, I was afraid that letter would be a blow 
to him; still, I see no way out of it — I really don’t!” 

“ I have never liked you much, Mr. Spens,” said 
Frances Kane. “ 1 have mistrusted you, and been afraid 
of you; but I will reverse all my former opinions — all — 
now, if you will only tell me the exact truth with regard to 
my father’s affairs.” 

The lawyer smiled and bowed. 

“ Thank you for your candor,” he remarked. “ In 
such a case as yours the plain truth is best, although it 
is hardly palatable. Your father is an absolutely ruined 
man. He can not possibly repay the six thousand pounds 
which he has borrowed. He obtained the money from 
my client by mortgaging the Firs to him. Now my client’s 
distinct instructions are to sell, and realize what we can. 
The property has gone much to seed. I doubt if we shall 
get back what was borrowed; at any rate, land, house, 
furniture, all must go.” 

“ Thank you — you have indeed spoken plainly,” said 
Frances. “ One question more: when must you sell?” 

“In three months from now. Let me see; this is July. 
The sale will take place early in October. ” 

Frances had been sitting. She now rose to her feet. 

“ And there is really no way out of it?” she said, linger- 
ing for a moment. 

“ None; unless your father can refund the six thousand 
pounds. ” 

“ He told me, Mr. Spens, that if the Firs is sold he will 
certainly die. He is an old man, and feeble now. I am 
almost sure that he speaks the truth when he says such a 
blow will kill him,” 

2 


34 


PRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


‘‘Ah! painful, very/^ said the lawyer, “These un- 
toward misfortunes generally accompany rash speculation. 
Still, I fear — I greatly fear — that this apprehension, if 
likely to be realized, will not affect my client’s resolution.'’^ 

“ Would it,'' said Frances, “ would it be possible to in- 
duce your client to defer the sale till after my father's 
death? Indeed — indeed — indeed, I speak the truth when T 
say I do not think he will have long to wait for his money. 
Could he be induced to wait, Mr. Spens, if the matter were 
put to him very forcibly?" 

“ I am sure he could not be induced. Miss Kane; un- 
less, indeed, you could manage to pay the interest at five 
per cent, on his six thousand pounds. That is, three hun- 
dred a year." 

“ And then?" Frances's dark eyes brightened. 

“ I would ask him the question; but such a thing is 
surely impossible." 

“ May I have a week to think it over? I will come to 
you with my decision this day week." 

“ Well, well, I say nothing one way or another. You 
can't do impossibilities. Miss Kane. But a week's delay 
affects no one, and I need not go on drawing up the partic- 
ulars of sale until I hear from you again." 

Frances bowed, and left the office without even shaking 
hands with Mr. Spens. 

“ She's a proud woman," said the lawyer to himself, as 
he watched her driving away. “ She looks well, too, when 
her eyes flash, and she puts on that haughty air. Odd that 
she should be so fond of that cantankerous old father. I 
wonder if the report is true which I heard of an Australian 
lover turning up for her. Well, there are worse-looking 
women than Frances Kane. I thought her very much 
aged when she first came into the office, but when she told 
me that she didn't much like me, she looked handsome and 
young enough." 

Instead of driving home, Frances turned the pony's head 
in the direction of a long shady road which led into a 
westerly direction away from Martinstown. She drove 
rapidly for about half an hour under the trees. Then she 
turned to the silent Pete. 

“ Pete, you can go back now to the Firs, and please tell 
your master and Miss Danvers that 1 shall not be lK)ni 0 


FKANCES KANE^S FORTUKE. 35 

until late this evening. See, I will send this note to the 
squire. 

She tore a piece of paper out of her pocket-book, and 
scribbled a few lines hastily. 

“ Dear Father, — I have seen Mr. Spens. Don^t de- 
spair. I am doing my best for you. Frances.’^ 

“ I shall be back before nightfall,^^ said Frances, giving 
the note to the lad. “ Drive home quickly, Pete. See 
that Bob has a feed of oats, and a groom-down after his 
journey. I shall be home at latest by nightfall.’^ 


CHAPTER VIII. 

FOR THE SAKE OF THREE HUNDRED A YEAR. 

For nearly another quarter of a mile Frances walked 
quickly under the friendly elm-trees. Then she came to 
some massive and beautifully wrought iron gates, and 
paused for an instant, pressing her hand to her brow. 

“ Shall 1 go on?^^ said she to herself. “ It means giving 
up Philip — it means deliberately crushing a very bright 
hope. / 

She remained quite still for several seconds longer. Her 
lips, which were white and tired-looking, moved silently. 
She raised her eyes, and looked full into the blue deep of 
the sky; and then she turned in at one of the gates, and 
walked up an exquisitely kept carriage drive. 

Some ladies in a carriage bowled past her; the ladies 
bent forward, bowed, and smiled. 

“ Why, that is Frances Kane,^^ they said one to an- 
other. “ How good of her to call — and this is one of Aunt 
Lucilla^s bad days. If she will consent to see Frances it 
will do her good.^^ 

Frances walked on. The avenue was considerably over 
a mile in length. Presently she came to smaller gates, 
which were flung open. She now found herself walking 
between velvety greenswards, interspersed with beds filled 
with all the bright flowers of the season. Not a leaf was 
out of place; not an untidy spray was to be seen anywhere; 
the garden was the perfection of what money and an able 
gardener could achieve. 

The avenue was a winding one, and a sudden bend 


36 


FRANCES KANe’s FORTUNE. 


brought Frances in full view of a large, square, massive- 
looking house — a house which contained many rooms, and 
was evidently of modern date. Frances mounted the steps 
which Jed to the wide front entrance, touched an electric 
bell, and waited until a footman in livery answered her 
summons. 

“ Is Mrs. Passmore at home?^’ 

“ I will inquire, madame. Will you step this way?^^ 

Frances was shown into a cool, beautifully furnished 
morning-room. 

“ What name, madame?^^ 

“ Miss Kane, from the Firs. Please tell Mrs. Passmore 
that I will not detain her long.'’^ 

The man bowed, and, closing the door softly after him, 
withdrew. 

Her long walk, and all the excitement she had gone 
through, made Frances feel faint. It was past the hour 
for lunch at the Firs, and she had not eaten much at the 
early breakfast. She was not conscious, however, of 
hunger, but the delicious coolness of the room caused her 
to close her eyes gratefully — gave her a queer sensation of 
sinking away into nothing, and an odd desire, hardly felt 
before it had vanished, that this might really be the case, 
and so that she might escape the hard role of duty. 

The rustling of a silk dress was heard in the q)assage— a 
quick, light step approached — and a little lady most 
daintily attired, with a charming frank face, stepped 
briskly into the room. 

“ My dear Frances, this is delightful — how well — no, 
though, you are not looking exactly the thing, poor dear. 
So you have come to have lunch with me; how very, very 
nice of you! The others are all out, and I am quite alone. 

“ But 1 have come to see you on business, Carrie.’’ 

“ After luncheon, then, dear. My head is swimming 
now, for 1 have been worrying over Aunt Lucilla’s ac- 
counts. Ah, no, alas! this is not one of her good days. 
Come into the next room, Frances — if you have so liUle 
time to spare, you busy, busy creature, you can at least 
talk while we eat.” 

Mrs. Passmore slipped her hand affectionately through 
Frances’s arm, and led her across the wide hall to another 
cool and small apartment where covers were already placed 
for two. 


FKANCES KAFTE^S FORTUNE. 


37 


“ I am very glad of some lunch, Carrie/^ said Frances. 
“ 1 left home early this morniug. 1 am not ashamed to 
say that I am both tired and hungry. 

“ Eat then, my love, eat — these are lamb cutlets; these 
pease are not to he compared with what you can produce 
at the Firs, but still they are eatable. Have a glass of this 
cool lemonade. Oh, yes, we will help ourselves. You 
need not wait Smithson. 

The footman withdrew. Mrs. Passmore flitted about the 
table, waiting on her guest with a sort of loving tenderness. 
Then she seated herself close to Frances, pretended to eat 
a mouthful or two, and said suddenly: 

“ 1 know you are in trouble. And yet I thought — I 
hoped — that you would be bringing me good news before 
long. Is it true, Frances, that Philip Arnold is really alive 
after all, and has returned to England?^^ 

It is perfectly true, Carrie. At this moment Philip is 
at the Firs."" 

Mrs. Passmore opened her lips — her bright eyes traveled 
all over Frances"s face. 

“You don"t look well,"" she said, after a long pause. 
“ I am puzzled to account for your not looking well now."" 

“ What you think is not going to happen, Carrie. Philip 
is not likely to make a long visit. He came yesterday; he 
may go again to-morrow or next day. We won"t talk of 
it. Oh, yes, of course it is nice to think he is alive and 
well. Carrie, does your aunt Lucilla still want a com- 
panion?"" 

Mrs. Passmore jumped from her seat — her eyes lighted 
up; she laid her two dimpled, heavily ringed hands on 
Frances’s shoulders. 

“ My dear, you can"t mean it! You can"t surely mean 
that you would come? You know what you are to auntie; 
you can do anything with her. Why, you would save her, 
Frances; you would save us all."" 

“ I do think of accepting the post, if you will give it to 
me,"" said Frances. 

“ Give it to you? you darling! As if we have not been 
praying and longing for this for the last two years!"" 

But, Carrie, 1 warn you that I only come because 
necessity presses me — and — and — I must make conditions 
— 1 must make extravagant demands."" 

“ Anything, dearest. Is it a salary? Name anything 


38 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


you fancy. You know Aunt Lucilla is j’olling in money. 
Indeed, we all have more than we know what to do with. 
Money canH buy everything, Frances. Ah, yes, I have 
proved that over and over again; but if it can buy you, it 
will for once have done us a good turn. What do you 
want, dear? DonH be afraid to name your price — a hun- 
dred a year? You shall have it with pleasure.'’^ 

“ Carrie, 1 know what you will think of me, but if I am 
never frank again I must be now. I don^t come here to 
oblige you, or because 1 have a real, deep, anxious desire 
to help your aunt. I come — I come alone because of a 
pressi]]g necessity; there is no other way out of it that I 
can see, therefore my demand must be extravagant. If I 
take the post of companion to your aunt Lucilla, I shall 
want three hundred pounds a year.^' 

Mrs. Passmore slightly started, and for the briefest in- 
stant a frown of disappointment and annoyance knit her 
pretty brows. Then she glanced again at the worn face of 
the girl who sat opposite to her; the steadfast eyes looked 
down, the long, thin, beautifully cut fingers trembled as 
Frances played idly with her fork and spoon. 

“ No one could call Frances Kane mercenary,” she said 
to herself. “ Poor dear, she has some trouble upon her. 
Certainly her demand is exorbitant; never before since the 
world was known did a companion receive such a salary. 
Still, where would one find a second Frances?” 

“ So be it, dear,” she said, aloud. “ I admit that your 
terms are high, but in some ways your services are beyond 
purchase. No one ever did or ever will suit Aunt Lucilla 
as you do. Now, when will you come?” 

“ I am not quite sure yet, Carrie, that I can come at all. 
If I do it will probably be in a week from now. Yes, to- 
morrow week; if I come at all I will come then; and I will 
let you know certainly on this day week.” 

My dear, you are a great puzzle to me; why can’t you 
make up your mind now?” 

“ My own mind is made up, Carrie, absolutely and fully, 
but others have really to decide for me. I think the 
chances are that I shall have my way. Carrie dear, you 
are very good; I wish 1 could thank you more.” 

“ No, don’t thank me. When you come jmu will give 
as much as you get. Your post won’t be a sinecure,” 


FRANCES KANE’S FORTUNE. 


39 


“ Sinecures never fell in rny way/^ said Frances. “ May 
I see your aunt for a few minutes to-day 

“ Certainly, love — you know her room. You will find 
her very jioorly and fractious this afternoon. Will you tell 
her that you are coming to live with her, Frances?^^ 

“ No; that would be cruel, for 1 may not be able to 
come, after all. Still, I think I shall spend some time in 
doing my utmost to help you and yours, Carrie.^" 

“ God bless you, dear! Now run up to auntie. You 
will find me in the summer-house whenever you like to 
come down. I hope you will spend the afternoon with 
me, Frances, and have tea; I can send you home in the 
evening. 

“ You are very kind, Carrie, but I must not stay. I 
will say good-bye to you now, for I must go back to Mar- 
tinstown for a few minutes early this afternoon. Good- 
bye, thank you. You are evidently a very real friend in 
need."' 

Fi'ances kissed Mrs. Passmore, and then ran lightly up 
the broad and richly carpeted stairs.' Her footsteps made 
no sound on the thick Axminster. She flitted 2 :»ast down 
a long gallery hung with portraits, presently stopped be- 
fore a baize door, paused for a second, then opened it swift- 
ly and went in. 

She found herself in an anteroom, darkened and ren- 
dered cool with soft green silk drapery. The anteroom led 
to a large lOom beyond. She tapped at the door of the in- 
side room, and an austere-looking woman dressed as a Jiurse 
ojjened it immediately. Her face lighted up when she saw 
Frances. 

“ Miss Kane, you're just the 2 )erson of all others my 
mistress would like to see. Walk in, miss, please. Can 
you stay for half an hour? If so. I'll leave you. ’' 

“ Yes, Jennings. I am sorry Mrs. Carnegie is so ill to- 
day." 

Then she stepped across the carpeted floor, the door was 
closed behind her, and she found herself in the presence of 
a tall thin woman, who was lying full length on a sofa by 
the open window. Never was there a more peevish face 
than the invalid wore. Her brows were slightly drawn to- 
gether, her lij3S had fretful curves; the pallor of great pain, 
of intense nervous suffering, dwelt on her brow. Frances 
went softly up to her. 


40 


FKANCES KANE’s FOKTUKE. 


“ How do you do, Mrs. Carnegie?^^ she said, iu her gen- 
tle voice. 

The sound was so low and sweet that the invalid did not 
even start. A smile like magic chased the furrows from 
her face. 

“ Sit down, Frances, there's a dear child,'' she said. 
“Now, 1 have been wishing for you more than for any 
one. I'm at my very worst to-day, dear. My poor back 
is so bad — oh, the nerves, dear child, the nerves! I really 
feel that 1 can not speak a civil word to any one, and Jen- 
nings is so awkward, painfully awkward — her very step 
jars me; and why will she wear those stiff-starched caps 
and aprons? But there, few understand those unfortu- 
nates who are martyrs to nerves." 

“ You have too much light on your eyes," said Frances. 
She lowered the blind about an inch or two. 

“ Now tell me, have you been down-stairs to-day?" 

“ How can you ask me, my love, when I can't even 
crawl? Besides, I assure you, dear, dearest one " — here 
Mrs. Carnegie took Frances's hand and kissed it — “ that 
they dislike having me. Freda and Alicia quite show their 
dislike in their manner. Carrie tries to smile and look 
friendly, but she is nothing better than a hypocrite. I can 
read through them all. They are only civil to me; they 
only put up with their poor old aunt because I am rich, 
and they enjoy my comfortable house. Ah! they none of 
them know what nerves are— the rack, the tear, to the 
poor system, that overstrained nerves can give. My dar- 
ling, you understand, you pity me." 

“ I am always very sorry for you, Mrs. Carnegie, but 1 
think when you are better you ought to exert yourself a 
little more, and you must not encourage morbid thoughts. 
Now shall 1 tell you what I did with that last five-pound 
note you gave me?" 

“ Ah, yes, love, that will be interesting. It is nice to 
feel that even such a useless thing as money can make 
some people happy. Is it really, seriously the case, Fran- 
ces, that there are any creatures so destitute in the world 
as not to know where to find a five-pound note?" 

“ There are thousands and thousands who don't even 
know where t3 find a shilling," replied Frances. 

Mrs. Carnegie's faded blue eyes lighted up. 

“ How interesting!" she said. “ Why, it must make 


FRANCES KANE'S FORTUNE. 


41 


existence quite keen. Fancy being anxious about a shil- 
ling! I wish something would make life keen for me; but 
my nerves are in such a state that really everything that 
does not thrill me with torture, palls. 

“ I will tell you about the people who have to find their 
shil lings, responded Frances. 

She talked with animation for about a quarter of an 
hour, then kissed the nervous sufferer, and went away. 

Half an hour^s brisk walking brought her back to Mar- 
tinstown. She reached the lawyer’s house, and was fort- 
unate in finding him within. 

“Will you tell your client, Mr. Spens, that if he will 
hold over the sale of the Firs until after my father’s death, 
I will engage to let him have five per cent, on his money? 
I have to-day accepted the post of companion to Mrs. 
Carnegie, of Arden. For this I am to have a salary of 
three hundred pounds a year.” 

“ Bless me!” said the lawyer. “ Such a sacrifice! 
Why! that woman can’t keep even a servant about her. 
A heartless, selfish hypochondriac! even her nieces will 
scarcely stay in the house with her. I think she would get 
you cheap at a thousand a year. Miss Kane; but you must 
be joking.” 

“ I am in earnest,” responded Frances. “ Please don’t 
make it harder for me, Mr. Spens. I know what 1 am un- 
dertaking. Will you please tell your client that I can pay 
him. his interest? If he refuses to accept it, 1 am as 1 was 
before; if he consents, I go to Arden. You will do me a 
great favor by letting me know his decision as soon as pos- 
sible.” 

The lawyer bowed. 

“ I will do so,” he said. Then he added, “ I hope you 
will forgive me, Miss Kane, for saying that I think you are 
a very brave and unselfish woman, but I don’t believe even 
you will stand Mrs. Carnegie for long.” 

“ 1 think you are mistaken,” responded Frances, gen- 
tly. “ I do it for the sake of three hundred pounds a year, 
to save the Firs for my father during his life-time.” 

The lawyer thought he had seldom seen anything sadder 
than Frances’ smile. It quite haunted him as he wrote 
to his client, urging him to accept her terms. 


42 


FEANCES KANE’s FORTUNE. 


CHAPTER IX. 

UNDER THE ELMS. 

Squire Kane had spent by no means an unhappy day. 
The misfortune, which came like a sudden crash upon 
Frances, he had been long prepared for. Only last week 
Mr. Spens had told him that he might expect some such 
letter as had been put into his hands that morniug. He 
had been a little nervous while breaking his news to Fran- 
cos — a little nervous and a little cross. But when once she 
was told, he was conscious of a feeling of relief; for all his 
hard words to her, he had unbounded faith in this clever 
managing daughter of his; she had got him out of other 
scrapes, and somehow, by hook or by crook, she would get 
him out of this. 

Except for Fluff’s rather hard words to him when he 
spoke to her about Frances, he had rather an agreeable 
day. He was obliged to exert himself a little, and the ex- 
ertion did him good and made him less sleepy than usual. 
Both Fluff and Philip did their best to make matters pass 
agreeably for him, and wdien Frances at last rtiached home, 
in the cool of the evening, she found herself in the midst 
of a very cheerful domestic scene. 

At this hour the squire was usually asleep in the south 
parlor; on this night he was out-of-doors. His circular 
cape, it is true, was over his shoulders, and Fluff had 
tucked a white shawl round his knees, but still he was sit- 
ting out-of-doors, cheering, laughing, and applauding while 
Arnold and Miss Danvers sung to him. Fluff had never 
looked more lovely. Her light gossamery white dress was 
even more cloudy than usual ; a softer, richer pink mantled 
her rounded cheeks; her big blue eyes were lustrous, and 
out of her parted lips poured a melody as sweet as a night- 
ingale’s. Arnold was standing near her — he also was sing- 
ing— and as Frances approached he did not see her, for his 
glance, full of admiration, was fixed upon Miss Danvers. 

“ Halloo! here we are, Frances!” called out the squire; 
“ and a right jolly time we’ve all had. I’m out-of-doors, 
as you see; broken away from my leading-strings when 
you’re absent; ah, ah! How late you are, child! but we 


FEANCES IvANE’s FORTUNE. 


43 


didnH wait dinner. It doesnH agree with me, as you 
know, to be kept waiting for dinner.^’ 

“ You look dreadfully tired, Frances,'^ said Philip. 

He dropped the sheet of music he was holding, and ran 
to fetch a chair for her. He no longer looked at Ellen, for 
Frances’s pallor and the strained look in her eyes filled him 
with apprehension. 

“ You don’t look at all well,” he repeated. 

And he stood in front of her, shading her from the gaze 
of the others. 

Frances closed her eyes for a second. 

“ It was a hot, long walk,” she said then, somewhat 
faintly. And she looked up and smiled at him. It was 
the sweetest of smiles, but Arnold, too, felt, as well as the 
lawyer, that there was something unnatural and sad in it. 

“ I don’t understand it,” he said to himself. “ There’s 
some trouble on her; what can it be? I’m afraid it’s a 
private matter, for the squire’s right enough. Never saw 
the old boy looking jollier.” Aloud he said, turning to 
Fluff, “ Would it not be a good thing to get a cup of tea 
for Frances? No? — now I insist. I mean you must let 
us wait on you, Frances; Miss Danvers and I will bring the 
tea out here. We absolutely forbid you to stir a step until 
you have taken it.” 

His “ we ” meant “ I.” 

Frances w’as only too glad to lie back in the comfortable 
chair, and feel, if only for a few minutes, she might 
acknowledge him her master. 

The squire, finding all this fuss about Frances wonder- 
fully uncongenial, had retired into the house, and Arnold 
and Fluff served her daintily — Arnold very solicitous for 
comfort, and Fluff very merry, and much enjoying her 
present office of waiting-maid. 

“ I wish this tea might last forever,” suddenly exclaimed 
Frances. 

Her words were spoken with energy, and her dark eyes, 
as they glanced at Arnold, were full of fire. 

It was not her way to speak in this fierce and spasmodic 
style, and the moment the little sentence dropped from her 
lips she blushed. 

Arnold looked at her inquiringly. 

“ Are you too tired to have a walk with me?” he said. 
“ Not far — down there under the shade of the elm-trees. 


44 


FKANCES KANE^S FORTUKE. 


You need not be cruel, Frances. You can come with me 
as far as that. 

Frances blushed still more vividly. 

I am really very tired, she answered. There was un- 
willingness in her tone. 

Arnold gazed at her in surprise and perplexity. 

“ Perhaps,^" he said, suddenly, looking at Fluff, “ per- 
haps, if you are quite too tired even to stir a few steps, 
Frances, Miss Danvers would not greatly mind leaving us 
alone here for a little. 

Before she could reply, he went up to the .young girPs 
side and took her hand apologetically. 

“You don’t mind?” he said. “I mean, you won’t 
think me rude when I tell you that 1 have come all the 
way from Australia to see Frances?” 

“ Eude? I am filled with delight,” said Fluff. 

Her eyes danced; she hummed the air of “ Sweethearts ” 
quite in an obtrusive manner as she ran into the house. 

“ Oh, squire,” she said, running up to the old man, who 
had seated himself in his favorite chair in the parlor. “ 1 
have discovered such a lovely secret.” 

“ Ah, what may that be, missy? By the way, Fluff, you 
will oblige me very much if you will call Frances here. 
This paraffine lamp has never been trimmed — if 1 light it, 
it will smell abominably; it is really careless of Frances to 
neglect my comforts in this way. Oblige me by calling 
her, Fluff; she must have finished her tea by this time.” 

“ I’m not going to oblige you in that way,” said Fluff. 
“ Frances is particularly engaged — she can’t come. Do 
you know he came all the way from Australia on purpose? 
What can a lamp matter?” 

“ What a lot of rubbish you’re talking, child! Who 
came from Australia? Oh, that tiresome Arnold! A 
lamp does matter, for I want to read.” 

“ Well, then. I’ll attend to it,” said Fluff. “ What is 
tlie matter with it?” 

“ The wick isn’t straight — the thing will smell, I tell 
you.” 

“ I suppose I can put it right. I never touched a lamp 
before in my life. Where does the wick come?” 

“Do be careful, Ellen, you will smash that lamp — it 
cost three and sixpence. There, I knew you would; you’ve 
done it now. ” 


FRANCES KANE’s FORTUNE. 45 

The glass globe lay in fragments on the floor. Flufl 
gazed at the broken pieces comically. 

“Frances would have managed it all right/^ she said; 
“ What a useless little thing lam! 1 can do nothing but 
dance and sing and talk. Shall 1 talk to you, squire? We 
don’t want light to talk, and I’m dying to tell you what 
I’ve discovered.” 

“ Well, child, well — 1 hate a mess on the floor like that. 
Well, what is it you’ve got to say to me, Fluff? It’s really 
unreasonable of Frances not to come. She must. have fin- 
ished her tea long ago.” 

“ Of course she has finished her tea; she is talking to 
Mr. Arnold. He came all the way from Australia to have 
this talk with' her. I’m so glad. You’ll find out what a 
useful, dear girl Frances is by and by, when you never have 
her to trim your lamps.” 

“ What do you mean, you saucy little thing? When I 
don’t have Frances; what do you mean?” 

“ Why, you can’t have her when she’s— she’s married. 
It must be wonderfully interesting to be married; I sup- 
pose 1 shall be some day. Weren’t you greatly excited 
long, long ago, when you married?” 

“ One would think I lived in the last century, miss. As 
to Frances, well— well, she knows my wishes. Where did 
you say she was? Really, I’m very much disturbed to- 
day; I had a shock, too, this morning — oh! nothing that 
you need know about; only Frances might be reasonable. 
Listen to me. Fluff; your father is in India, and, it so 
happens, can not have you with him at present, and your 
mother, poor soul, poor, dear soul! she’s dead; it was the 
will of Heaven to remove her, but if there is a solemn duty 
devolving upon a girl, it is to see to her parents, provided 
they are with her. Frances has her faults, but I will say, 
as a rule, she knows her duty in this particular.” 

The squire got up restlessly as he spoke, and, try as she 
would. Fluff found she could no longer keep him quiet in 
the dark south parlor. He went to the open window and 
called his daughter in a high and peevish voice. Frances, 
however, was nowhere within hearing. 

The fact was, when they were quite alone, Philip took 
her hand and said, almost peremptorily: 

“ There is a seat under the elm-trees; we can talk there 
without being disturbed,” 


4:6 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


“ Ifc has come/* thought Frances. I thought I might 
have been spared to-night. I have no answer ready — I 
don’t know what is before me. The chances are that I 
must have nothing to say to Philip; every chance is against 
our marrying, and yet 1 (;an not — I know 1 can not refuse 
him to-night.” 

They walked slowly together through the gathering 
dusk. When they reached the seat under the elm-tree 
Arnold turned swiftly, took Frances’s hand in his, and 
spoke. 

“ Now, Frances, now; and at last!” he said. “ I have 
v/aited ten years for this moment. I have loved you with 
all my heart and strength for ten years.” 

“ It was very — very good of you, Philip.” 

“ Good of me! Why do you speak in that cold, guarded 
voice? Goodness had nothing to say to the matter. I 
could not help myself. What’s the matter, Frances? A 
great change has come over you since the morning. Are 
you in trouble? Tell me what is troubling you, my dar- 
ling?” 

Frances began to cry silently. 

“You must not use loving words to me,” she said; 
“ they — they wring my heart. I can not tell you what is 
the matter, Philip, at least for a week. And — oh! if you 
would let me answer you in a week — and oh! poor Philip, 

I am afraid there is very little hope.” 

“ Why so, Frances; don’t you love me?” 

“ I — I — ought not to say it. Let me go back to the 
house now.” 

“ I shall do nothing of the kind. Do you love me?” 

“ Philip, I said 1 would give you an answer in a week.” 

“ This has nothing to say to your answer. You surely 
know now whether you love me or not.” 

“ I — Philip, can’t you see? Need I speak?” 

“I see that you have kept me at a distance, Frances; 
that you have left me alone all day; that you seem very 
tired and unhappy. What I see — yes, what I see — does 
not, I confess, strike me in a favorable light.” 

Frances, who had been standing all this time, now laid 
her hand on Arnold’s shoulder. Her voice had grown 
quiet, and her agitation had disappeared. 

“ A week will not be long in passing,” she said. “ A 
heavy burden has been laid upon me, and the worst part 


FKANCES KANE^S FOKTUNE. 


47 


is the suspense. If you have waited ten years, you can 
wait another week, Philip. I can give you no other an- 
swer to-night/^ 

The hand which unconsciously had been almost caressing 
in its light touch was removed, and Frances returned 
quickly to the house. She came in by a back entrance, 
and, going straight to her own room, locked the door. 
Thus she could not hear her father when he called her. 

But Philip remained for a long time in the elm-walk, 
hurt, angry, and puzzled. 


CHAPTER X. 

“fluff will suit him best.^^ 

Frances spent a very unhappy night. She could not 
doubt Philipps affection for her, but she knew very little 
about men, and was just then incapable of grasping its 
depth. Like many another woman, she overlooked the 
fact that in absolutely sacrificing herself she also sacrificed 
the faithful heart of the man who had clung to her mem- 
ory for ten long years. 

Frances was too humble to suppose it possible that any 
man could be in serious trouble because he could not win 
her. 

“ I know what will happen,'^ she said to herself, as she 
turned from side to side of her hot, unrestful pillow. “ 1 
know exactly how things will be. The man to whom my 
father owes the money will accept the interest from me. 
Xes, of course, that is as it should be. That is what I 
ought to wish for and pray for. In about a week from 
now I shall go to live at Arden, and the next few years of 
my life will be taken up soothing Mrs. Carnegie’s nerves. 
It is not a brilliant prospect, but I ought to be thankful if 
in that way I can add to my poor father’s life. Of course, 
as soon as I hear from Mr. Spens, I must tell Philip I can 
have nothing to say to him. I must give Philip up. I 
must pretend that I don’t love him. Perhaps he will be 
disappointed for awhile; but of course he will get over it. 
He’ll get another wife by and by; perhaps he’ll choose 
Fluff. Fluff is just the girl to soothe a man and make 
him happy. She is so bright, and round, and sweet, she 
has no hard angles anywhere, and she is so very pretty. I 
saw Philip looking at her with great admiration to-night. 


48 


FRANCES KANE’s FORTUNE. 


Then she is young, too. In every way she is more suited 
to him than I am. Oh, it wonT be at all difficult for 
Philip to transfer his affections to Fluff! Dear little girl, 
she will make him happy. They will both be happy, and 
I must hide the pain in my heart somehow. I do believe, 
1 do honestly believe, that Fluff is more suited to Philip 
than I am; for now and then, even if 1 had the happiest 
lot, I must have my sad days. 1 am naturally grave, and 
sometimes I have a sense of oppression. Philip would not 
have liked me when 1 was not gay. Some days 1 must 
feel grave and old, and no man would like that. No 
doubt everything would be for the best, at least, for Philip, 
and yet how much — how much I love him!” 

Frances buried her head in the bed-clothes, and sobbed, 
long and sadly. After this fit of crying she fell asleep. 

It was early morning, and the summer light was filling 
the room when she woke. She felt calmer now, and she 
resolutely determined to turn her thoughts in practical 
directions. There was every probability that the proposal 
she had made to Mr. Spens would be accepted, and if that 
were so she had much to do during the coming week. 

She rose at her usual early hour, and, going down-stairs, 
occupied herself first in the house, and then with Watkins 
in the garden. She rather dreaded Philip’s appearance, 
but if he were up early he did not come out, and when 
Frances met him at breakfast his face wore a tired, rather 
bored expression. He took little or no notice of her, but 
he devoted himself to Fluff, laughing at her gay witty 
sallies, and trying to draw her out. 

After breakfast Frances had a long conversation with 
her father. She then told him what she meant to do in 
order that he might continue to live at the Firs. She told 
her story in a very simple, ungarnished manner, but she 
said a few words in a tone which rather puzzled the squire 
at the end. 

“ I will now tell you,” she said, “ that when Philip 
wrote to me asking me to be his wife I was very, very glad. 
For all the long years of his absence 1 had loved him, and 
when I thought he was dead I was heart-broken. I meant 
to marry him after he wrote me that letter, but I would 
not say so at once, for I knew that 1 had grown much 
older, and 1 thought it quite possible that when he saw me 
he might cease to love me. That is not the case; last 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


49 


night he let me see into his heart, and he loves me very, 
very deeply. Still, if your creditor consents to the arrange- 
ment I have proposed, I can not marry Philip-— I shall then 
absolutely and forever refuse him. . But I do this for you, 
father, for my heart is Philip’s. I wish you to under- 
stand, therefore, that I could not give up more for you 
than I am doing. It would be a comfort for me if, in re- 
turn, you would give me a little affection.” 

. Frances stood tall and straight and pale by her father’s 
side. She now looked full into his face. There were no 
tears in her eyes, but there was the passion of a great cry 
in the voice which she tried to render calm. 

The squire was agitated in spite of himself; he was glad 
Fluff was not present. He had an uneasy consciousness of 
certain words Fluff had said to him yesterday. 

“ You are a good girl, Frances,” he said, rising to his 
feet and laying his trembling old hand on her arm. “ I 
love you after my fashion, child — I am not a man of many 
words. By and by, when you are old yourself, Frances, 
you won’t regret having done something to keep your old 
father for a short time longer out of his grave. After all, 
even with your utmost endeavor, 1 am not likely to trouble 
any one Ion . When I am dead and gone, you can marry 
Philip Arno d, Frances.” 

“No father.” 

Frances’s tone was quiet and commonplace now. 

“ Sit down, please; don’t excite yourself. 1 am not a 
woman to keep any man waiting for me. I trust, long 
before you are dead, father, Philip will be happy with an- 
other wife.” 

“What! Fluff, eh?” said the old man. “What a 
capital idea! You will forgive my saying that she will suit 
him really much better than you, Frances. Ah, there 
they go down the elm-walk together. She certainly is a 
fascinating little thing. It will comfort you, Frances, to 
know that you do Philip no injury by rejecting him; for 
he really gets a much more suitable wife in that pretty 
young girl — you are decidedly fassky my love. ” 

Frances bit her lips hard. 

“ On the w’hole, then, you are pleased with wliat I have 
done,” she said, in a constrained voice. 

“ Yery much pleased, my dear. You have acted well, 
and really with uncommon sense for a woman. There is 


50 . 


FRANCES KANE'S FORTUNE. 


only one drawback that I can see to your scheme. While 
you are enjoying the luxuries and comforts of Arden, who 
is to take care of me at the Firs?" 

“ I have thought of that," said Frances. “ I acknowl- 
edge there is a slight difficulty; but I think matters can be 
arranged. First of all, father, please disabuse yourself of 
the idea that I shall be in a state of comfort and luxury. 
I shall be more or less a close prisoner; I shall be in servi- 
tude. Make of that what you please." 

“ Yes, yes, my love — a luxurious house, carriages, and 
horses — an affectionate and most devoted friend in Lucilla 
Carnegie — the daintiest living, the most exquisitely fur- 
nished rooms. Yes, yes, I'm not complaining. I'm only 
glad your lot has fallen in such pleasant places, Frances. 
Still, I repeat, what is to become of me?" 

“ I thought Mrs. Cooper, our old housekeeper, would 
come back and manage matters for you, father. She is 
very skillful and nice, and she knows your ways. Watkins 
quite understands the garden, and 1 myself, I am sure, will 
be allowed to come over once a fortnight or so. There is 
one thing — you must be very, very careful of your money, 
and Watkins must try to sell all the fruit and vegetables 
he can. Fluff, of course, can not stay here. My next 
thought is to arrange a home for her, but even if I have to 
leave next week, she need not hurry away at once. Now, 
father, if you will excuse me, I will go out to Watkins, for 
1 have a great deal to say to him." 


CHAPTER XI. 

EDGE TOOLS. 

“ I HAVE something to say to you, Fluff," said Frances. 

The young girl was standing in hei* white dress, with her 
guitar hung in its usual attitude by her side. She scarcely 
ever went anywhere without this instrument, and she was 
fond of striking up the sweetest, v/ildest songs to its accom- 
paniment at any moment. 

Fluff, for all her extreme fairness and babyishness, had 
not a doll's face. The charming eyes could show man v 
emotions, and the curved lips reveal many shades either of 
love or dislike. She had not a passionate face; there were 
neither heights nor depths about little Fluff; but she had 
a very warm heart, and was both truthful and feailess. 


FRAN'CES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


51 


She had been waiting in a sheltered part of the garden 
for over an hour for Arnold. He had promised to go down 
with her to the river — he was to sketch, and she was to 
play. It was intensely hot, even in the shadiest part of 
the squire's garden, but by the river there would be cool- 
ness and a breeze. Flulf was sweet-tempered, but she did 
not like to wait an hour for auy man, and she could not 
help thinking it aggravating of Arnold to go on pacing up 
and down in the hot sun by the squire’s side. What could 
the squire and Arnold have to say to each other? And 
why did the taller and younger man rather stoop as he 
walked? And why was his step so depressed, so lacking 
in energy that even Fluff, under her shady tree in the dis- 
tance, noticed it? 

She was standing so when Frances came up to her; now 
and then her fingers idly touched her guitar, her rosy lips 
pouted, and her glowing dark-blue eyes were fixed reproach- 
fully on Arnold’s distant figure. 

Frances looked pale and fagged; she was not in the be- 
coming white dress which she had worn during the first 
few days of Arnold’s visit; she was in gray, and the gray 
was not particularly fresh nor cool in texture. 

“ Flufi, I want to speak to you,” she said. 

And she laid her hand on the girl’s shoulder — then her 
eyes followed Fluff’s; she saw Arnold, and her cheeks grew 
a little whiter than before. 

“ Fluff misses him already,” she whispered to her heart. 
“And he likes her. They are always together. Yes, 1 
see plainly that I sha’ii’t do Philip any serious injury when 
I refuse him.” 

“ What is it, Frances?” said Fluff, turning her rather 
aggrieved little face full on the new-comer. “ JDo you 
want to say anything to me very badly? I do call it a 
shame of Mr. Arnold; he and the squire have chatted to- 
gether in the South Walk for over an hour. It’s just too 
bad. I might have b«cn cooling myself by the river now; 
I’m frightfully hot.” 

“Ho, you’re not really very hot,” said Frances, in the 
peculiarly caressing tone she always employed when speak- 
ing to her little cousin. “ But I own it is very annoying 
to have to wait for any one — more particularly when you 
are doing nothing. Just lay your guitar on the grass, 
Fluff, and let us walk up and down under the shade here. 


52 FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 

I have something to say to you, and it will help to pass 
the time.^^ 

Fluff obeyed at once. 

‘‘ You don^t look well, Frances,’^ she said, in her affec- 
tionate way, linking her hand through her cousin^s arm. 
I have noticed that you havenH looked yourself ever since 
the day you went to Martinstown — nearly a week ago now. 
Now I wonder at that, for the weather has been so perfect, 
and everything so sweet and nice; and I must say it is a 
comfort to have a pleasant man like Mr. Arnold in the 
house. I have enjoyed myself during the past week, and 
I greatly wonder you haven’t, Frances.” 

“1 am glad you have been happy, dear,” said Frances, 
ignoring the parts of Fluff’s speech which related to her- 
self. “ But it is on that very subject I want now to speak 
to you. You like living at the Firs, don’t you. Fluff?” 

“ Why, of course, Frances. It was poor mamma’s ” — 
here the blue eyes brimmed with tears — “it was darling 
mother’s wish that I should come here to live with you and 
the squire. I never could be so happy anywhere as at the 
Firs; I never, never want to leave it.” 

“ But of course you will leave it some day, little Fluff, 
for in the ordinary course of things you will fall in love 
and you will marry, and when this happens you will love 
your new home even better than this. However, Fluff, we 
need not discuss the future now, for the present is enough 
for us. I wanted to tell you, dear, that it is very probable, 
almost certain, that I shall have to go away from home. 
What is the matter. Fluff?” 

“ You go away? Then I suppose that is why you look 
ill. Oh, how you have startled me!” 

“lam sorry to have to go. Fluff, and I can not tell you 
the reason. You must not ask me, for it is a secret. But 
the part that concerns you, dear, is that, if I go, I do not 
see how you can stay on very well atdihe Firs.” 

“ Of course 1 should not dream of staying, Francie. 
With you away, and Mr. Arnold gone ” — here she looked 
hard into Frances’s face — “ it would be dull. Of course, 
I am fond of the squire, but I could not do without an- 
other companion. Where are you going, Frances? Could 
not I go with you?” 

“ 1 wish you could, darling. I will tell you where I am 


FRANCES KAKE’s FORTUNE. 


53 


going to-morrow or next day. It is possible that 1 may 
not go, but it is almost certain that 1 shall. 

“ Oh, 1 trust, I hope, I pray that you will not go. 

“ DonH do that. Fluff, for that, too, means a great 
trouble. Oh, yes, a great trouble and desolation. Now, 
dear, I really must talk to you about your own affairs. 
Leave me out of the question for a few moments, pet. I 
must find out what you would like to do, and where you 
would like to go. If 1 go away I shall have little or no 
time to make arrangements for you, so 1 must speak to you 
now. Have you any frieuds who would take you in until 
you would hear from your father, Fluff?^’ 

“ 1 have no special friends. There are the Hare woods, 
but they are silly and flirty, and I donT care for them. 
They talk about dress — you should hear how they go on — 
and they always repeat the silly things the men they meet 
say to them. No, I wonT go to the Harewoods. I think 
if I must leave you, Frances, I had better go to my old 
school-mistress, Mrs. Hopkins. She would be always glad 
to have me.^' 

“ That is a good thought, dear. I will write to her to- 
day just as a precautionary measure. Ah, and here comes 
Philip. Philip, you have tried the patience of this little 
girl very sadly. ’’ 

In reply to Frances’ speech Arnold slightly raised his 
hat; his face looked drawn and worried; his eyes avoided 
Frances’s, but turned with a sense of refreshment to where 
Fluff stood looking cool and sweet, and with a world of 
tender emotion on her sensitive little face. 

“A thousand apologies,” he said. “The squire kept 
me. Shall I carry your guitar? No, I won’t sketch, 
thanks; but if you will let me lie on my back in the long 
grass by the river, and if you will sing me a son^ or two, 
1 shall be grateful ever after.” 

“ Then 1 will write to Mrs. Hopkins, Fluff,” said Fran- 
ces. And as the two got over a stile which led down a slop- 
ing meadow to the river, she turned away. Arnold had 
neither looked at her nor addressed her again. 

“ My father has been saying something to him,” thought 
Frances. And she was right. 

The squire was not a man to take up an idea lightly and 
then drop it. He distinctly desired, come what might, 
that bis daughter should not marry Arnold; he canie tq 


o4 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


the sage conclusion that the best way to prevent such a 
catastrophe was to see Arnold safely married to some one 
else. The squire had no particular delicacy of feeling to 
prevent his alluding to topics which might be avoided by 
more sensitive men. He contrived to see Arnold alone, 
and then rudely, for he did not care to mince his words, 
used expressions the reverse of truthful, which led Arnold, 
whose faith was already wavering in the balance, to feel 
almost certain that Frances never had cared for him, and 
never would do so. He then spoke of Fluff, praising her 
enthusiastically, and without stint, saying how lucky he 
considered the man who won not only a beautiful, but a 
wealthy bride, and directly suggested to Arnold that he 
should go in for her. 

“ She likes you now,’^ said the squire; “ bless her little 
heart, she’d like any one who was kind to her. She’s 
just the pleasantest companion any man could have — a 
perfect dear all round. To tell the truth, Arnold, even 
though she is my daughter, I think you are well rid of 
Frances.” 

“ I’m ashamed to hear you say so, sir. If what you tell 
me is true, your daughter has scarcely behaved kindly to 
me; but, notwithstanding that, I consider Frances quite 
the noblest woman I know.” 

“Pshaw!” said the squire. “You agree with Fluff — 
she’s always praising her, too. Of course, I have nothing 
to say against my daughter — she’s my own uprearing, so it 
would ill beseem me to run her down. But for a wife, give 
me a fresh little soft roundabout, like Fluff yonder.” 

Arnold bit his lip. 

“ You have spoken frankly to me, and 1 thank you,” 
he said. “If 1 am so unfortunate as not to win Miss 
Kane’s regard, there is little use in my prolonging my 
visit here; but I have yet to hear her decision from her 
own lips. If you will allow me, I will leave you now, 
squire, for I promised Miss Danvers to spend some of this 
afternoon with her by the river. ” 

“With Fluff. ^ Little puss — very good — very good — 

Ah! 

“ ‘ The time I’ve spent in wooing ’ 

never wasted, my boy — never wasted. 1 wish you all sue- 
ces§ from the bottom of my bearf 


FRANCES KANE’s FORTUNE. 


55 


Insufferable old idiot growled Arnold, under his 
breath. 

But he was thoroughly hurt and annoyed, and when he 
saw Frances, could not bring himself even to say a word to 
her. 

The squire went back to the house to enjoy his afternoon 
nap, and to reflect comfortably on the delicious fact that 
lie had done himself a good turn. 

“ There is no use playing with edge tools,^’ he mur- 
mured. “ Frances means well, but she confessed to me 
she loved him. What more likely, then, that she would 
accept him, and, notwithstanding her good resolutions, 
leave her poor old father in the lurch? If Frances accepts 
Arnold, it will be ruin to me, and it simply must be pre- 
vented at all hazards. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE CUNNING LITTLE MOUSE. 

Fluff found her companion strangely dull. They 
reached the river, where Arnold, true to his promise, did 
stretch himself at full length in the long fragrant grass; 
and Fluff, true to her promise, touched her guitar gently, 
and gently, softly, and sympathetically sung a song or two. 
She sung about the “Auld acquaintance^^ who should 
never be forgot; she sung of “ Robin Adair;'’ and, lastly, 
her clear little notes warbled out the exquisite Irish melody, 
“ She is far from the laud." Never had Fluff sung bet- 
ter. She threw feeling and sympathy into her notes — in 
short, she excelled herself in her desire to please. But 
when at the end of the third song Arnold still made no 
response, when Jiot the flicker of an eyelid or the faintest 
dawn of a smile showed either approbation or .pleasure, 
the spoiled child threw her guitar aside, and spoke pet- 
tishly. 

“ 1 won’t amuse you any more," she said. “ I don't 
like sulky people: 1 am going home to my darling Frances. 
She is often troubled — oh, yes, she knows what trouble is 
— but she never sulks, never!" 

“ Look here. Fluff," said Arnold. “ I may call you 
Fluff, may I not?" 

“ I don't mind. " • 

Fluff's big eyes began to dilate. She stretched out her 


56 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


hand to draw her guitar once more to her side. She was 
evidently willing to be reasonable. 

“ Look here/^ repeated Arnold. He rose hastily, and 
leaning on a low wall which stood near, looked down at 
the bright little girl at his feet. “ Fluff, he said,“ should 
you greatly mind if I threw conventionality to the winds, 
and spoke frankly to you?’^ 

“ I should not mind at all,^^ said Fluff. “ 1 don^t know 
what you have got to say, but I hate conventionalities.^^ 

“ The fact is, 1 am very much bothered,-’^ 

“Oh!’^ 

“ And I haven’t a soul to consult.’^ 

Another “ Oh!” and an upward glance of two lovely 
long-fringed eyes. 

“ And I think you have a kind, affectionate heart. 
Fluff.” 

“ I have.” 

“ And you won’t misunderstand a man who is half dis- 
tracted?” 

“ I am sorry you are half distracted. No, I won’t mis- 
understand you.” 

“ That is right, and what 1 expected. I was thinking 
of all this, and wondering if I might speak frankly to you 
when you were singing those songs. That is the reason I 
did not applaud you, or say thank you, or anything else 
commonplace.” 

“ I understand now,” said Fluff. “ I’m very glad. 1 
was puzzled at first, and 1 thought you rude. Now I quite 
understand. ” 

“ Thank you. Fluff; if I may sit by your side I will tell 
you the whole story. The fact is, 1 want you to help me, 
but you can only do so by knowing everything. Why, 
what is the matter? x\re you suddenly offended?” 

“ No,” answered little Ellen; “ but I’m surprised. I’m 
so astonished that I’m almost troubled, and yet I never 
was so glad in my life. You are the very first person who 
has ever asked me to help them. I have amused people — 
oh, yes, often; but helped — you are the very first who has 
asked me that. ” 

“ I believe you are a dear little girl,” said Arnold, look- 
ing at her affectionately; “ and if any one can set things 
right now, you are the person. Will you listen to my 
story? May I begin?” 


PKANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


57 


“ Certainly. 

“ Remember, I am not going to be conventional.^^ 

“ You said that before. 

“ I want to impress it upon you. I am going to say the 
sort of things that girls seldom listen to.^-’ 

“You make me feel dreadfully curious,^^ said Fluff. 
“ Please begin. 

“ The beginning is this: Ten years ago 1 came here. 1 
stayed here for a month. I fell in love with Frances.^’ 

“ Oh — oh! darling Frances. And you fell in love with 
her ten years ago?^^ 

“ I did. I went to Australia. For five years I had an 
awful time there; my friends at home supposed me to be 
dead. The fact is, I was taken captive by some of the 
bushmen. That has nothing to say to my story, only all 
the time I thought of Frances. I remained in Australia 
five more years. During that five years I was making my 
fortune. As I added pound to pound, 1 thought still of 
Frances. I am rich now, and I have come home to marry 
her.^^ 

“ Oh,'’^ said little Fluff, with a deep-drawn sigh, “ what 
a lovely story! But why, then, is not Frances happy?'’ 

“ Ah, that is where the mystery comes in; that is what 
I want you to find out. I see plainly that Frances is very 
unhappy. She won't say either yes or no to my suit. Her 
father gives me to understand that she does not love me; 
that she never loved me. He proposes that instead of 
marrying Frances I should try to make you my wife. He 
was urging me to do so just now when I kept you waiting. 
All the time he was telling me that Frances never could or 
would love me, and that you were the wife of all others 
for me." 

“ Why do you tell me all this?" said Fluff. Her cheeks 
had crimsoned, and tears trembled on her eyelashes. 
“ Why do you spoil a beautiful story by telling me this at 
the end?" 

“ Because the squire will hint it to yon, Fluff; because 
even Frances herself will begin to think that I am turning 
my affections in your direction; because if you help me as 
I want you to help me, we must be much together; be- 
cause I must talk very freely to you; in short, because it 
is absolutely necessary that we should quite understand 
each other." 


58 


FRANCES KANE'S FORTUNE. 


“ Yes/^ said Fluff. “1 see now what you mean; it is 
all right; thauk; you very much.’^ She rose to her feet. 
“ I will be a sort of sister to you/^ she said, laying her lit- 
tle hand in his; “ for I love Frances better than any sister, 
and when you are her husband you will be my brother. 

“ No brother will ever be truer to you. Fluff; but, alas, 
and alas! is it ever likely that Frances can be my wife?^^ 

“ Of course she will,'’^ said Fluff. “ Frances is so un- 
happy because she loves you.^^ 

“ Nonsense. 

“ Well, I think so, but Pll soon find out.^^ 

“You will? If you were my real sister, I would call 
you a darling.'^ 

“ You may call me anything you please. 1 am your sis- 
ter to all intents and purposes, until you are married to 
my darling, darling Frances. Oh, won^t I give it to the 
squire! I think he^s a perfectly horrid old man, and I 
used to be fond of him. 

“ But you will be careful. Fluff — a rash word might do 
lots of mischief. 

“ Of course Fll be careful. I have lots of tact.^’ 

“ You are the dearest girl in the world, except Fran- 
ces. 

“ Of course 1 am. That was a very pretty speech, and 
1 am going to reward you. I am going to tell you some- 
thing."^ 

“ What is that?"" 

“ Frances is going away."" 

Arnold gave a slight start. 

“ 1 did not know that,"" he said. “ When?"" 

“ She told me when you were talking to the squire. She 
is going away very soon, and she wants me to go too. I 
am to go back to my old school-mistress, Mrs. Hopkins. 
Frances is very sorry to go, and yet when I told her that I 
hoped she would not have to, she said I must not wish 
that, for that would mean a great calamity. I don"t un- 
derstand Frances at present, but I shall soon get to the 
bottom of everything."" 

“ I fear it is all too plain,"" said Arnold, lugubriously. 
“ Frances goes away because she does not love me, and she 
is unhappy because she does not wish to give me pain."" 

“ You are quite wrong, sir. Frances is unhappy on her 
ow'u account, not on yours. Well, ITl find out lots of 


FRAJiTCES KAKE^S FORTUNE. 


59 


things to-night, and let you know. Pm going to be the 
cunningest little mouse in the world; but oh, won’t the 
squire have a bad time of it!^^ 


CHAPTER XIIL 

“ LITTLE GIRLS IMAGINE THINGS. 

The morning^s post brought one letter. It was ad- 
dressed to Miss Kane, and was written in a business hand. 
The squire looked anxiously at his daughter as she laid it 
unopened by her plate. Fluff, who was dressed more be- 
comingly than usual, whose eyes were bright, and who 
altogether seemed in excellent spirits, could not help tele- 
graphing a quick glance at Arnold; the little party were 
seated round the breakfast- table, and the squire, who inter- 
cepted Fluff’s glance, chuckled inwardly. He was very 
anxious with regard to the letter which Frances so pro- 
vokingly left unopened, but he also felt a pleasing thrill of 
satisfaction. 

“ Ha! ha!” he said to himself, “ my good young man, 
you are following my advice, for all you looked so sulky 
yesterday. Fluff, little dear, I do you a good turn when I 
provide you with an excellent husband, and I declare, poor 
as I am, 1 won’t see you married without giving you a 
wedding present.” 

After breakfast the squire rose, pushed aside his chair, 
and was about to summon his daughter to accompany him 
to the south parlor, when Fluff ran up to his side. 

“ I want to speak to you most particularly,” she said. 
“ I have a secret to tell. you,” and she raised her charm- 
ing, rounded, fresh face to his. He patted her on the 
cheek. 

“Is it very important?” he said, a little uneasily, for 
he noticed that Philip and Frances were standing silently, 
side by side in the bay-window., and that Frances had re- 
moved her letter from its envelope, and was beginning to 
read it. 

“ She’ll absolutely tell that fellow the contents of the 
most important letter she ever received,” inwardly grum- 
bled the squire. “ He’ll know before her father knows.” 
Aloud he said, “ I have a little business to talk over with 
Frances just now, Ellen, I am afraid your secret must 
wait^ little 


60 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


“ But that^s what it can't do/' answered Fluff. “ Don't 
call Frances; she's reading a letter. What a rude old man 
you are, to think of disturbing her! I'm quite ashamed of 
you. Now come with me, for 1 must tell you my impor- 
tant secret." 

The squire found himself wheedled and dragged into the 
south parlor. There he was seated in his most comfortable 
chair, just as much sunlight as he liked best was allowed 
to warm him, a footstool was placed under his feet, and 
Fluff, drawing a second forward, seated herself on it, laid 
her hand on his knee, and looked at him with an expres- 
sion of pleased affection. 

“ Aren't you dreadfully curious?" she said. 

“ Oh, yes. Fluff — quite devoured with curiosity. I won- 
der now what Frances is doing; the fact is, she has received 
an important letter. It's about my affairs. I am natu- 
rally anxious to know its contents. Tell your secret as 
quickly as possible, little woman, and let me get to more 
important matters. " 

“ More important matters? I'm ashamed of you," said 
Fluff, shaking her finger at him. “ The fact is, squire, 
you mustn't be in a hurry about seeing Frances — you must 
curb your impatience; it's very good for you to curb it — 
it's a little discipline, and discipline properly administered 
always turns people out delightful. You'll be a very noble 
old man when you have had a little of the proper sort of 
training. Now, now — why, you look quite cross; I declare 
you're not a bit handsome when you're cross. Frances 
can't come to you at present — she's engaged about her own 
affairs." 

“ And what may they be, pray,* miss?" 

“ Ah, that's my secret!" 

Fluff' looked down; a becoming blush deepened the color 
in her cheeks; she toyed idly with a rosebud which she held 
in her hand. Something in her attitude, and the signifi- 
cant smile on her face, made the squire both angry and 
uneasy. 

“ Speak out, child," he said. “You know 1 hate mys- 
teries." 

“ But 1 can't speak out," said Fluff. “ The time to 
speak out hasn't come — I can only guess. Squire, I'm so 
glad — I really do think that Frances is in love with Philip. " 

“ You really do?" said the squire, He mimicked her 


FEANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


61 


tone sarcastically, red, angry spots grew on his old cheeks. 
“ Frances in love with Philip, indeed ! You have got pretty 
intimate with that young Australian, Fluif, when you call 
him by his Christian name.^^ 

“ Oh, yes; we arranged that yesterday. He^s like a 
brother to me. I told you some time ago that he was in 
love with Frances. Now, Pm so delighted to be able to 
say that I think Frances is in love with him.^^ 

“ Tut — tut!’^ said the squire. “ Little girls imagine 
things. Little girls are very fanciful.'^ 

“ Tut — tut!'^ responded Fluff, taking off his voice to 
the life. “ Little girls see far below the surface; old men 
are very obtuse. 

“ Fluff, if that^s your secret, I donT think much of it. 
Run away now, and send my daughter to me.^' 

“ ITl do nothing of the kind, for if she’s not reading 
her letter she’s talking to her true love. Oh, you must 
have a heart of stone to wish to disturb them!” 

The squire, with some difficulty, pushed aside his foot- 
stool, hobbled to his feet, and walked to the window where 
the southern sun was pouring in. In the distance he saw 
the gray of Frances’s dress through the trees, and Philip’s 
square, manly, upright figure walking slowly by her side. 

He pushed open the window, and hoarsely and angrily 
called his daughter’s name. 

“She doesn’t hear you,” said Fluff. “I expect he’s 
proposing for her now; isn’t it lovely? Aren’t you de- 
lighted? Oh, where’s my guitar? I’m going to -play 
‘ Sweethearts. ’ I do hope, squire, you’ll give Frances a 
very jolly wedding.” 

But the squire had hobbled out of the room. 

He was really very lame with rheumatic gout; but the 
sight of that gray, slender figure, pacing slowly under the 
friendly sheltering trees, was too much for him; he was 
overcome with passion, anxiety, rage. 

“ She’s giving herself away,” he murmured. “ That 
little vixen. Fluff, is right — she’s in love with the fellow, 
and she’s throwing herself at his head; it’s perfectly awful 
to think of it. She has forgotten all about her old father. 
I’ll be a beggar in my old age; the Firs will have to go; 
I’ll be ruined, undone.* Oh, was there ever such an un- 
dutiful daughter? I must go to her. I must hobble up 
to that distant spot as quickly as possible; perhaps when 


62 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


she sees me she may pause before she irrevocably commits 
so wicked au act. Oh, how lame 1 am ! what agonies I^m 
enduring! Shall 1 ever be in time? He^s close to her — 
he^s' almost touching her — good gracious, he^ll kiss her if 
I"m not quick! That little wretch Fluff could have 
reached them in a twinkling, but she won’t do anything 
to oblige me this morning. Hear her now, twanging away 
at that abominable air, ‘ S wee* hearts ’ — oh — oh — puff — puff 
— I’m quite blown! This walk will kill me! Frances — I 
say, Frances, Frances /” 

The feeble, cracked old voice w^as borne on the breeze, 
and the last high agonized note reached its goal. 

“1 am coming, father,” responded his daughter. She 
turned to Arnold, and held out her hand. 

“ God bless you!” she said. 

“ Is your answer final, Frances?” 

“ Yes — yes. 1 wish I had not kept you a week in sus- 
pense; it was cruel to you, but I thought — oh, 1 must not 
keep my father.” 

“ Your father has you always, and this is my last mo- 
ment. Then youTl never, never love me?” 

“ I can not marry you, Philip.” 

“ That is no answer. Y^ou never loved me.” 

“ I can not marry you.” 

“ 1 won’t take ‘ no ’ unless you say with it, ‘ I never 
loved you; 1 never can love you.’ ” 

“ Look at my father, Philip; he is almost falling. His 
face is crimson. 1 must go to him. God bless you!” 

She took his hand, and absolutely, before the squire’s 
horrified eyes, raised it to her lips, then flew lightly down 
the path, and joined the old man. 

“ Is anything wrong, father? How dreadful you look!” 

“ You — you have accepted the fellow! You have de- 
serted me; I saw you kiss his hand. Fah! it makes me 
sick. You’ve accepted him, and I arn ruined!” 

“ On the contrary, I have refused Philip. That kiss 
was like one we give to the dead. Don’t excite yourself; 
come into the house. 1 am yours absolutely from this 
time out.” 

“ Hum— haw — you gave me an awful fright, I can tell 
you.” The squire breathed more freely. “ You set that 
little Fluff on to begin it, and you ended it. I won’t be 
the better of this for some time. Yes, let me lean on you. 


FKANCES KAKE^S FORTUNE. 


63 


Frances; it^s a comfort to feel Frn not without a daugh- 
ter. Oh, it would have been a monstrous thing had you 
deserted me! Did 1 not rear you, and bring you up? j3ut 
in cases of the affections — I mean in cases of those paltry 
passions, women are so weak.^" 

“ But not your daughter, Frances Kane. I, for your 
sake, have been strong. Now, if you please, we will drop 
the subject; 1 will not discuss it further. You bad better 
come into the house, father, until you get cool.^^ 

“ You had a letter this morning, Frances — from Spens, 
was it not?^^ 

“ Oh, yes; I had forgotten; your creditors will accept 
my terms for the present. I must drive over to Arden 
this afternoon, and arrange what day I go there. 

“ I shall miss you considerably, Frances. It’s a great 
pity you couldn’t arrange to come home to sleep; you 
might see to my comforts then by rising a little earlier in 
the morning. I wish, my dear, you would propose it to 
Mrs. Carnegie; if she is a woman of any consideration she 
will see how impossible it is that I should be left alto- 
gether.” 

“ I can not do that, father. Even you must pay a cer- 
tain price for a certain good thing. You do not wish to 
leave the Firs, but you can not keep both the Firs and me. 
I will come and see you constantly, but my time from this 
out belongs absolutely to Mis. Carnegie. She gives me an 
unusually large salary, and, being her servant, 1 must en- 
deavor in all particulars to irlease her, and must devote my 
time to her to a certain extent day and night.” 

“ Good gracious, Frances, 1 do hope that though adver- 
sity has come to the house of Kane, you are not going so 
far to forget yourself as to stoop to menial work at Arden. 
Why, rather than that — rather than that, it would be bet- 
ter for us to give up the home of our fathers.” 

“ Ko work need be menial, done in the right spirit,” re- 
sponded Frances. 

Her eyes wandered away, far up among the trees, where 
Arnold still slowly paced up and down. In the cause of 
pride her father might even be induced to give up the Firs. 
Was love, then, to weigh nothing in the scale? 

She turned suddenly to the father. 

“You must rest now,” she said. “You need not be 
the least anxious on your own account any more. You 


64 


PRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


must rest and take things quietly, and do your best not to 
get ill. It would be very bad for you to be ill now, for 
there would be no one to nurse you. Remember that, and 
be careful. Now go and sit in the parlor, and keep out 
of draughts. I can not read to you this morning, for I 
shall be very busy, and you must not call me nor send for 
me unless it is absolutely necessary. Now, good-bye for 
the present. 

Frances did not, as her usual custom was, establish her 
father in his easy-chair; she did not cut his morning paper 
for him, nor attend to the one or two little comforts which 
he considered essential; she left him without kissing him, 
only her full, grave, sorrowful eyes lested for one moment 
with a look of great pathos on his wrinkled, discontented 
old face, then she went away. 

The squire was alone; even the irritating strain of 
“ Sweethearts no longer annoyed him. Fluff had ceased 
to play — Fluff’s gay little figure was no longer visible; the 
man who had paced up and down under the distant trees 
had disappeared; Frances’s gray dress was nowhere to be 
seen. 

The whole place was still, oppressively still — not a bee 
hummed, not a bird sung. The atmosphere was hot and 
dry, but there was no sunshine; the trees were motionless, 
there was a feeling of coming thunder in the air. 

The squire felt calmed and triumphant, at the same 
time he felt irritated and depressed. His anxiety was over; 
his daughter had done what he wished her to do — the Firs 
was saved, at least for his life-time — the marriage he so 
dreaded was never to be. At the same time, he felt dull 
and deserted; he knew what it was to have his desire, and 
leanness in his soul. It would be very dull at the Firs 
without Frances; he should miss her much when she went 
away. He was a feeble old man, and he was rapidly grow- 
ing blind. Who would read for him, and chat with him, 
and help to while away the long and tedious hours? He 
could not spend all his time eating and sleeping. What 
should he do now with all the other hours of the long day 
and night? Ho felt pleased with Frances — he owned she 
was a good girl; but at the same time he was cross with 
her; she ought to have thought of some other way of de- 
livering him. She was a clever woman — he owned she was 


FRANCES KANE’s FORTUNE. C5 

a clever woman; but she ought not to have effected his 
salvation by deserting him. 

The squire mumbled and muttered to himself. He rose 
from his arm-chair and walked to the window; he went 
out and paced up and down the terrace; he came in again. 
Was there ever such a loug and tiresome morning? He 
yawned; he did not know what to do with himself. 

A little after noon the door of the south parlor was 
quickly opened and Arnold came in. 

“ I have just come to say good-bye, sir.^^ 

The squire started in genuine amazement. He did not 
love Arnold, but after two hours of solitude he was glad to 
hear any human voice. It never occurred to him, too, 
that any one should feel Frances such a necessity as to 
alter plans on her account. 

“ You are going away?’^ he repeated. “ You told me 
yesterday you would stay here for at least another week or 
ten days.^^ 

Exactly, but I have changed my mind,^^ said Arnold. 
“ 1 came here for an object — my object has failed. Good- 
bye.’" 

“ But now, really — ” the squire strove to retain the 
young man’s hand in his clasp. “ You don’t seriously 
mean to tell me that you are leaving a nice place like the 
Firs in this fine summer weather because Frances has re- 
fused you.” 

I am going away on that account,” replied Arnold, 
stiffly. ‘ ‘ Good-bye. ’ ’ 

“ You astonish me — you quite take my breath away. 
Frances couldn’t accept you, you know. She had me to 
see after. I spoke to you yesterday about her, and 1 sug- 
gested that you should take Fluff instead. A dear little 
thing. Fluff. Young, and with money; who would com- 
pare the two.^” 

“Who would compare the two?” echoed Arnold. “ I 
repeat, squire, that I must now wish you good-bye, and I 
distinctly refuse to discuss the subject of my marriage any 
further.” 

Arnold’s hand scarcely touched Squire Kane’s. He left 
the south parlor, and his footsteps died away in the dis- 
tance. 

Once more there was silence and solitude. The sky grew 
darker, the atmosphere hotter and denser — a growl of thun- 

3 


66 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


der was heard in the distance— a flash of lightning lighted 
up the squire’s room. Squire Kane was very nervous in a 
storm — at all times he hated to be long alone — now he felt 
terrified, nervous, aggrieved. He rang his bell pretty 
sharply. 

“ Jane,” he said to the servant who answered his sum- 
mons, “ send Miss Kane to me at once. ” 

“ Miss Kane has gone to Martinstown, sir. She drove 
in in the pony-cart an hour go.” 

“ Oh — h’m — 1 suppose Mr. Arnold went with her?” 

“ No, sir. Mr. Arnold took a short cut across the fields; 
he says the carrier is to call for his portmanteau, and he’s 
not a-coming back.” 

“ H’m — most inconsiderate — I hate parties broken up 
in a hurry like this. What a vivid flash that was! Jane, 
I’m afraid we are going to have an awful storm.” 

“ It looks like it, sir, and the clouds is coming direct 
this way. Watkins says as the strength of the storm will 
break right over the Firs, sir.” 

“ My good Jane, I’ll thank you to shut the windows, 
and ask Miss Danvers to have the goodness to step this 
way.” 

“ Miss Danvers have a headache, sir, and is lying down. 
She said as no one is to disturb her.” 

The squire murmured something inarticulate. Jane lin- 
gered for a moment at the door, but finding nothing more 
was required of her, softly withdrew. 

Then in the solitude of his south parlor the squire saw 
the storm come up — the black clouds gathered silently 
from east and west, a slight shiver shook the trees, a sud- 
den wind agitated the slowly moving clouds — it came be- 
tween the two banks of dark vapor, and then the thunder 
rolled and the lightning played. It was an awful storm, 
and the squire, who was timid at such times, covered his 
face with his trembling hands, and even feebly tried to 
pray. It is possible that if Frances had come to him then 
he would, in the terror fit which had seized him, have 
given her her heart’s desire. Even the Firs became of 
small account to Squire Kane, while the lightning flashed 
in his eyes and the thunder rattled over his head. He was 
afraid — he would have done anything to propitiate the 
Maker of the storm — he would have even sacrificed himself 
if necessary. 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. G7 

But the clouds rolled away, the sunshine came out. 
Fear vanished from the squire’s breast, and when dinner 
v/as announced he went to partake of it with an excellent 
appetite. Fluff and he alone had seats at the board; 
Arnold and Frances were both away. 

Fluff’s eyes were very red. She was untidy, too, and 
her whole appearance might best be described by the word 
“disheveled.” She scarcely touched her dinner, and her 
chattering, merry tongue was silent. 

The squire was a man who never could abide melancholy 
in others. He had had a fright; his fright was over. He 
was therefore exactly in the mood to be petted and humored, 
to have his little jokes listened to and applauded, to have 
his thrice-told tales appreciated. He was just in the mood, 
also, to listen to pretty nothings from a pretty girl’s lips, 
to hear her sing, perhaps to walk slowly with her by and 
by in the sunshine. 

Fluff’s red eyes, however. Fluff’s disordered, untidy ap- 
pearance, her downcast looks, her want of appetite, pre- 
sented to him, just then, a most un pleasing picture. As 
his way was, he resented it, and began to grumble. 

“ I have had a very dull morning,” he began. 

“ Indeed, sir? I won’t take any pease, thank you, Jane; 
I’m not hungry.” 

“ I hate little girls to come to table who are not hun- 
gry,” growled the squire. “ Bring the pease here, Jane.” 

“ Shall I go up to my room again?” asked Fluff, laying 
down her knife and fork. 

“ Oh, no, my love; no, not by any means.” 

The squire was dreadfully afraid of having to spend as 
solitary an afternoon as morning. 

“ I am sorry you are not quite well. Fluff,” he said, 
hoping to pacify the angry little maid; “ but 1 suppose it 
was the storm. Most girls are very much afraid of light- 
ning. It is silly of them; for really in a room with the 
windows shut — glass, you know, my dear, is a non-con- 
ductor — there is not much danger. But there is no com- 
bating the terrors of the weaker sex. 1 can fancy you. 
Fluff, burying that pretty little head of yours under the 
bed-clothes. That doubtless accounts for its present rough 
condition. You should have come to me, my love; I’d 
have done my best to soothe your nervous fears.” 

Fluff’s blue eyes were opened wide. 


68 


FRAKCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


“ I donH know what you are talking about/^ she said. 
“ 1 afraid of the storm, and burying my head under the 
bed-clothes, as if I were a baby or a silly old man! Yes, 
of course I knew there was a storm, but 1 didn’t notice it 
much, I was too busy packing.” 

This last remark effectually distracted the squire’s atten- 
tion. 

“ Packing! good gracious, child, you are not going away 
too?” 

“ Of course I am; you don’t suppose I am going to stay 
here without my darling Francie?” 

“ But what am I to do. Fluff?” 

“ 1 don’t know, squire. I suppose you’ll stay on at the 
Firs.” 

“ Alone! Do you mean I’m to stay here alone?” 

“ I suppose so, now that you have sent Frances away.” 

“ I have not sent her away. What do you mean, miss?” 

“ I’m not going to say what I mean,” said Fluff. “ Dear 
Frances is very unhappy, and I’m very unhappy too, and 
Philip, I think, is the most miserable of all. As far as I 
can tell, all this unhappiness has been caused by you, 
squire, so I suppose you are happy; but if you think I am 
going to stay at the Firs without Frances you are very 
much mistaken. I would not stay with you now on any 
account, for you are a selfish old man, and. I don’t love 
you any longer. ” 

This angry little speech was uttered after Jane had with- 
drawn, and even while Fluff spoke she pushed some fruit 
toward the squire. 

“ You are a selfish old man,” she continued, her cheeks 
burning and her eyes flashing; “ you want your comforts, 
you want to be amused, and to get the best of everything; 
and if that is so you don’t care for others. Well, here is 
the nicest fruit in the garden — eat it; and by and by I’ll 
sing for you, if my singing gives you pleasure. I’ll do all 
this while I stay, but I’m going away the day after to-mor- 
row. But I don’t love you any more, for you are unkind 
to Frances. ” 

The squire was really too much astonished to reply. 
Nobody in all his life had ever spoken to him in this way 
before; he felt like one who was assaulted and beaten all 
over. He was stunned, and yet he still clung in a sort of 
mechanical way to the comforts which were dearer to him 


FRANCES KANE's FORTUNE. 


69 


than life. He picked out the finest strawberries which 
Fliifl! had piled on his plate, and conveyed them to his lips. 
Fluff flew out of the room for her guitar, and when she 
returned she began to sing a gay Italian air in a very 
sprightly and effective manner. In the midst of her song 
the squire broke in with a sudden question. 

“ What do you mean by saying I am unkind to Fran- 
ces!*"^ 

Fluff^s guitar dropped with a sudden clatter to the floor. 

“ You won't let her marry Philip — she loves him with 
all her heart, and he loves her. They have cared for each 
other for ten long years, and now you are parting them. 
You are a dreadfully, dreadfully selfish old man, and I 
hate you!" 

Here the impulsive little girl burst into tears and ran 
out of the room. The squire sat long over his strawberries. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“l HATE THE SQUIRE." 

It was arranged that Frances should take up her abode 
at Arden on the following Friday, and on Thursday Fluff 
was to go to London, to stay — for a time, at least — under 
the sheltering wings of her late school-mistress, Mrs. Hop- 
kins. With regard to her departure. Fluff made an ex- 
traordinary request — she earnestly begged that Frances 
should not accompany her to Martinstown. She gave no 
reason for this desire; but she enforced it by sundry pet- 
tings, by numerous embraces, by both tears and smiles — in 
short, by the thousand and one fascinations which the lit- 
tle creature possessed. A certain Mrs. Mansfield was to 
escort Fluff to London; and Frances arranged that the 
two should meet at the railway station, and catch the 
twelve-o'clock train for town. 

“ I don’t want you to introduce her to me, darling," 
said Fluff. “ I can’t possibly mistake her, for she is tall, 
and has a hooked nose, and always wears black, you say. 
And you know what I am, just exactly like my name; so 
it will be impossible for us not to recognize each other." 

Thus Fluff got her way, and Frances saw her off, not 
from the railway platform, but standing under the elm- 
trees where Fluff had first seen her and Arnold together. 

When a turn in the road quite hid Frances Kane from 


70 


FRANCES KANE’S FORTUNE. 


the little girFs view she clasped her hands with a mixture 
of ecstasy and alarm. 

“ Now I can have my way/’ she said to herself, “ and 
dear Frances will never, never suspect.” 

A cab had been sent for to Martinstown to fetch away 
Fluff and her belongings. The driver was a stranger, and 
Fluff thought it extremely unlikely that, even if he wished 
to do so he would be able to tell tales. She arrived in 
good time at the railway station, instantly assumed a busi- 
ness-like air, looked out for no tall lady with a hooked nose 
in biack, but calmly booked her luggage for a later train, 
and calling the same cabman, asked him to drive her to 
the house of the lawyer, Mr. Spens. 

The lawyer was at home, and the pretty, excitable little 
girl was quickly admitted into his presence. Mr. Spens 
thought he had seldom seen a more radiant little vision 
than this white-robed, eager, childish creature — childish and 
yet womanly just then, with both purpose and desire in her 

“You had my letter, hadn’t you?” said Fluff. “ 1 am 
Ellen Danvers; Miss Kane is my cousin, and my dearest, 
and most dear friend.” 

“ I have had your letter. Miss Danvers, and I remained 
at home in consequence. Won’t you sit down? What a 
beautiful day this is!” 

“ Oh, please, don’t waste time over the weather. I am 
come to talk to you about Frances. You have got to pre- 
vent it, you know.” 

“ My dear young lady, to prevent what?” 

“ Well, she’s not to go to Arden. She’s not to spend 
the rest of her days with a dreadful, fanciful old woman! 
She’s to do something else quite different. You’ve got to 
prevent Frances making herself and — and — others mis- 
erable all her life. Do you hear, Mr. Spens?” 

“ Yes, I certainly hear. Miss Danvers. But how am I 
to alter or affect Miss Kane’s destiny is more than 1 can 
at present say. You must explain yourself. I have a very 
great regard for Miss Kane; I like her extremely. I will 
do anything in my power to benefit her; but as she chose 
entirely of her own free will — without any one, as far as 1 
am aware, suggesting it to her — to become companion to 
Mrs. Carnegie, I do not really see how I am to interfere.” 

“ Yes, you are,” said Fluff, whose eyes were now full of 


FRANCES KANE’s FORTUNE. 


71 


tears. “ You are to interfere because you are at the bot- 
tom of the mystery. You kiio^v why Frances is going to 
Mrs. Carnegie, and why she is refusing to marry Philip 
Arnold, who has loved her for ten years, and whom she 
loves with all her heart. Oh, I can^t help telling you this! 
It is a secret, a kind of secret, but you have got to give me 
another confidence in return. 

“ 1 did not know about Arnold, certainly,^' responded 
Spens. “ That alters things. I am truly sorry; I am 
really extremely sorry. Still I don't see how Miss Kane 
can act differently. She has promised her father now: it 
is the only way to save him. Poor girl! I am sorry for 
her, but it is the only way to save the squire." 

“ Oh, the squire!" exclaimed Fluff, jumping up in her 
seat, and clasping her hands with vexation. “ Who cares 
for the squire? Is he to have everything. Is nobody to 
be thought of but him? Why should Frances make all her 
days wretched on his account? Why should Frances give 
up the man she is so fond of, just to give him a little more 
comfort and luxuries that he doesn’t want? Look here, 
Mr. Spens, it is wrong — it must not be! 1 won't have it!" 

Mr. Spens could not help smiling. 

“ You are very eager and emphatic," he said. “ 1 
should like to know how you are going to prevent Miss 
Kane taking her own way. ' ' 

“ It is not her own way; it is the squire's way." 

‘‘ Well, it comes to the same thing. How are you to 
prevent her taking the squire's way?" 

“ Oh, you leave that to me! 1 have an idea. I think I 
can work it through. Only I want you, Mr. Spens, to tell 
me the real reason why Frances is going away from the 
Firs, and why she has to live at Arden. She will explain 
nothing; she only says it is necessary. She won't give any 
reason either to Philip or me. " 

“ Don't you think. Miss Danvers, 1 ought to respect her 
confidence? If she wished you to know, she would tell you 
herself." 

" Oh, please — please tell me! Do tell me! I won't do 
any mischief, I promise you. Oh, if only you knew how 
important it is that I should find out!" 

The lawyer considered for a moment. Fluff's pretty 
words and beseeching gestures were having an effect upon 
him. After all, if there was any chance of benefiting Miss 


72 


FKANCE3 KANE’s FORTTJKE. 


Kane, why should the squire^s miserable secret be con- 
cealed? After a time he said: 

“ You look like a child, but I believe you have sense. 
I suppose whatever 1 tell you, you intend to repeat straight- 
way to Mr. Arnold?'’’ 

“ Well, yes; I certainly mean to tell him.” 

“ Will you promise to tell no one but Arnold?” 

“ Yes, I can promise that.” 

“ Then the facts are simple enough. The squire owes 
six thousand pounds to a client of mine in London. My 
client wants to sell the Firs in order to recover his money. 
The squire says if he leaves the Firs he must die. Miss 
Kane comes forward and offers to go as companion to Mrs. 
Carnegie, Mrs. Carnegie paying her three hundred pounds 
a year, which sum she hands over to my client as interest 
at five per cent, on the six thousand pounds. These are 
the facts of the case in a nutshell. Miss Danvers. Do you 
understand them?” 

“ I think I do. I am very much obliged to you. What 
is the name of your client?” 

“ You must excuse me, young lady — I can not divulge 
my client’s name.” 

“ But if Philip wanted to know very badly, you would 
tell him?” 

“ That depends on the reason he gave for requiring the 
information.” 

“ 1 think it is all right, then,” said Fluff, rising to her 
feet. “ Good-bye, I am greatly obliged to you. Oh, that 
dear Frances. Mr. Spens, 1 think I hate the squire.” 


CHAPTER XV. 

“MR. LOVER.” 

If there was a girl that was a prime favorite with her 
school-fellows, that girl was Ellen Danvers. She had all 
the qualifications which insure success in school life. She 
was extremely pretty, but she was unconscious of it; she 
never prided herself on her looks, she never tried to 
heighten her loveliness by a thousand little arts which 
school-girls always find out and despise. She had always 
plenty of money, which at school, if not elsewhere, is much 
appreciated. She was generous, she was bright, she was 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


73 


loving; she was not sufficiently clever to make any one en- 
vious of her, but at the same time she was so very smart 
and quick that not the cleverest girl in the school could 
despise her. 


When Fluff went away from Merton House the tribula- 
tion experienced on all sides was really severe. The girls 
put their heads together, and clubbed to present her with 
a gold bangle, and she in return left them her blessing, a 
kiss all round, and a pound^s worth of chocolate creams. 

The school was dull when Fluff went away; she took a 
place which no one else quite held. She was not at all 
weak or namby-pamby, but she was a universal peace- 
maker. Fluff made peace simply by throwing oil on 
troubled waters, for she certainly was not one to preach; 
and as to pointing a moral, she did not know the meaning 
of the word. 

It was with great rejoicing, therefore, that the young 
ladies of Mrs. Hopkins’ select seminary were informed on 
a certain Thursday morning that their idol was about to re- 
turn to them. She was no longer to take her place in any 
of the classes; she was to be a parlor boarder, and go in 
and out pretty much as she pleased; but she was to be in 
the house again, and they were to see her bright face, and 
hear her gay laugh, and doubtless she would once more be 
every one’s confidante and friend. 

In duo course Fluff arrived. It was late when she made 
her appearance, for she had missed the train by which 
Frances had intended her to travel. But late as the hour 
was — past nine o’clock — Fluff found time to pay a visit to 
the school-room, where the elder girls were finishing 
preparations for to-morrow, to rush through the dormito- 
ries, and kiss each expectant little one. 

“ It’s just delicious!” wl ' 



est scholar in the school. 


night before we break up. Just fancy, you will be there 
to see me if I get a prize!” 

‘ ‘ Yes, Sibyl, and if you do I’ll give you sixpenny worth 
of chocolate creams.” 

Sibyl shouted with joy. 

The other children echoed her glee. One of the teach- 
ers was obliged to interfere. Fluff vanished to the very 
select bedroom that she was now to occupy, and order was 
once more restored. 


74 


FRANCES KANE’S FORTUNE. 


Fluff’s name was now in every one’s mouth. Didn’t she 
look prettier than ever? Wasn’t she nicer than ever? 
Hadn’t she a wonderfully grown-up air? 

One day it was whispered through the school that Fluff 
had got a lover. This news ran like wildfire from the high- 
est class to the lowest. Little Sibyl asked what a lover 
meant, and Marion Jones, a lanky girl of twelve, blushed 
while she answered her. 

“ It isn’t proper to speak about lovers,” said Katie 
Philips. “ Mother said we weren’t to know anything about 
them. I asked her once, and that was what she said. She 
said it wasn’t proper for little girls to know about lovers.” 

“ But grown girls have them,” responded Marion, “ I 
think it must be captivating. I wish 1 was grown up.” 

‘‘ You’re much too ugly, Marion, to have a lover,” re- 
sponded Mary Mills. “ Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t get 
so red and angry! She’s going to strike me! Save me, 
girls!” 

“ Hush!” exclaimed Katie, “ hush! come this way. 
Look through the lattice. Look through the wire fence 
just here. Can you see? There’s Fluff, and there’s her 
lover. He’s rather old, isn’t he? But hasn’t he V air dis- 
tingue? Isn’t Fluff pretty when she blushes? The lover 
is rather tall. Oh, do look, Mary, can you see — can you 
see?” 


“Yes, he has fair hair,” responded Mary. “ It curls. 
I’m sorry it is fair and curly, for Fluff’s is the same. He 
should be dark, like a Spaniard. Oh, girls, girls, he has 
got such lovely blue eyes, and such white teeth! He smiled 
just now, and I saw them.” 

“ Let me peep,” said Marion. “ I haven’t got one peep 
yet. ” 

But here the voices became a little loud, and the lovers, 
if they were lovers, passed out of sight behind the yew 
hedge. 


“ That’s it,” said Fluff when she had finished her story; 
“ it’s all explained now. I hope you’re obliged to me.” 

“No brother could love you better, nor appreciate you 
more than I do. Fluff.” 

“Thank you; I’ll tell you how much I care for those 
words when you let me know what you are going to do.” 
Arnold put his hand to his forehead; his face grew 


PHANCES KANvE^S FORTUNE. 


75 


grave, ne looked with an earnest, half-puzzled glance at the 
childish creature by his side. 

“ I really think you are the best girl in the world, and 
one of the cleverest,'' he said. “ I have a feeling that you 
have an idea in your head, but I am sorry to say nothing 
very hopeful up to the present time has occurred to me. 
It does seem possible, after your explanation, that Frances 
may love me, and yet refuse me; yes, certainly, that does 
now seem possible." 

“ How foolish you are to speak in that doubting tone," 
half snapped Fluff (certainly, if the girls had seen her now 
they would have thought she was quarreling with her lover). 
“ How can you say perhaps Frances loves you? Loves 
you! She is breaking her heart for you. Oh! I could cry 
when I think of Frances's pain!" 

“Dear little friend!" said Arnold. “Then if that is 
so — God grant it, oh, God grant it — Frances and 1 must 
turn to you to help us." 

Fluff's face brightened. 

“ I will tell you my plan," she said. “ But first of all 
you must answer me a question. " 

“ What is it? I will answer anvthing." 

“ Mr. Arnold—" 

“You said you would call me Philip." 

“ Oh, well, Philip — I rather like the name of Philip — 
Philip, are you a rich man?" 

“ That depends on what you call riches. Fluff. I have 
brought fifteen thousand pounds with me from the other 
side of the world. 1 took five years earning it, for all those 
five years 1 lived as a very poor man, I was adding penny 
to penny, and pound to pound, to Frances's fortune." 

“ That is right," exclaimed Fluff, clapping her hands. 
“ Frances's fortune — then, of course, then you will spend 
it in saving her." 

“ 1 would spend every penny to save her, if 1 only knew 
how. " 

“ How stupid you are," said Fluff. “ Oh, if only 1 
were a man!" 

“ What would you do, if you were?" 

“What would I not do? Yon have fifteen thousand 
pounds, and Frances is in all this trouble because of six 
thousand pounds. Shall I tell you, must I tell you what 
you ought to do?" 


76 


fkancp:s kane^s fortune. 


“ Please — pray tell me.'’^ 

“ Oh, it is so easy. You must get the uame of the old 
horror in London to whom the squire owes six thousand 
pounds, and you must give him six out of your fifteen, and 
so pay off the squire/s debt. You must do this and — and — 

“ Yes, Fluff; I really do think you are the cleverest lit- 
tle girl I ever came across.^’ 

“ The best part is to come now,^^ said Fluff. “ Then 
you go to the squire; tell him that you will sell the Firs 
over his head, unless he allows you to marry Frances. Oh, 
it is so easy, so, so delightful 

“ Give me your hand, Fluff. Yes, 1 see light — yes. 
God bless you. Fluff 

“ There is no doubt she has accepted him,’^ reported Mary 
Mills to her fellows. “ They have both appeared again 
around the yew hedge, and he has taken her hand, and he 
is smiling. Oh, he is lovely when he smiles!’^ 

“ 1 wish 1 was grown up,^^ sighed Marion, from behind. 
“ IM give anything in all the world to have a lover. 

“It will be interesting to watch Fluff at supper to- 
night,^^ exclaimed Katie Philips. “ Of course sheTl look 
intensely happy. 1 wonder if she’ll wear an engagement- 
ring.” 

The supper hour came. Fluff took her seat among the 
smaller girls; her face was radiant enough to satisfy the 
most exacting, but her small dimpled fingers were bare. 

“ Why do you all stare at my hands so?” she exclaimed 
once. 

“ It^s on account of the ring,” whispered little Sibyl. 
“ Hasn’t he given you the ring yet?” 

“ Who is ‘ he,’ dear?” 

“ Oh, I wasn’t to say. His name is Mr. Lover.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

SWEETLY ROMANTIC. 

Mrs. Carnegie could scarcely be considered the most 
cheerful companion in the world. There was a general 
sense of rejoicing when Frances took up her abode at 
Arden, but the victim who was to spend the greater part 
of her life in Mrs. Carnegie’s heated chambers could 


PRANCES pane's PORTUNE. 


77 


scarcely be expected to participate in it. This good lady 
having turned her thoughts inward for so long, could only 
see the world from this extremely narrow standpoint. She 
was hypochondriacal, she was fretful, and although Frances 
managed her, and, in consequence, the rest of the house- 
hold experienced a good deal of ease, Frances herself, whose 
heart just now was not of the lightest, could not help suf- 
fering. Her cheeks grew paler, her figure slighter and 
thinner. She could only cry at night, but then she cer- 
tainly cried a good deal. 

On a certain sunny afternoon, Mrs. Carnegie, who 
thought it her bounden duty on all occasions to look out 
for grievances, suddenly took it upon herself to complain 
of Franceses looks. 

“ It is not that you are dull, my dear,^^ she remarked. 
“ You are fairly cheerful, and your laugh is absolutely 
soothing; but you are pale, dreadfully pale, and pallor jars 
on my nerves, dear. Yes, I assure you, in the sensitive 
state of my poor nerves a pale face like yours is absolutely 
excruciating to them, darling.'^ 

“ I am very sorry,^^ replied Frances. She had been a 
month with Mrs. Carnegie now, and the changed life had 
certainly not improved her. “ I am very sorry.'' Then 
she thought a moment. “ Would you like to know why I 
am pale?" 

“ How interesting you are, my love — so different from 
every other individual that comes to see me. It is good 
for my poor nerves to have my attention distracted to any 
other trivial matter? Tell me, dearest, why you are so 
pallid. I do trust the story is exciting — 1 need excitement, 
my darling. Is it an affair of the heart, precious?" 

Frances's face grew very red. Even Mrs. Carnegie 
ought to have been satisfied for one brief moment with her 
bloom. 

“ I fear I can only give you a very prosaic reason," she 
said, in her gentle, sad voice. “ I have little or no color 
because I am always shut up in hot rooms, and because I 
miss the open-air life to which I was accustomed." 

Mrs. Carnegie tried to smile, but a frov\rn came between 
her brows. 

“ That means," she said, ‘‘ that you would like to go 
out. You would leave your poor friend in solitude." 

“ I would take my friend with me," responded Frances. 


78 


FRANCES KANE’S FORTUNE. 


“ And she should have the pleasure of seeing the color com- 
ing back into my cheeks. 

And a most interesting sight it would be, darling. But 
oh, my poor, poor nerves! The neuralgia in my back is 
positively excruciating at this moment, dearest. 1 am 
positively on the rack; even a zephyr would slay me.^^ 

“ On the contrar}’,^^ replied Frances in a firm voice, 
“ you would be strengthened and refreshed by the soft, 
sweet air outside. Come, Mrs. Caruegie, I am your doctor 
and nurse, as well as your friend, and I prescribe a drive 
in the open air for you this morning. After dinner, too, 
your sofa, shall be placed in the arbor; in short, I intend 
you to live out-of-doors while this fine weather lasts. 

“ Ah, dear imperious one! And yet you will kill me 
with this so-called kindness.'’^ 

“ On the contrary, 1 will make you a strong woman if 1 
can. Now I am going to ring to order the carriage. 

She bustled about, had her way, and to the amazement 
of every one Mrs. Carnegie submitted to a drive for an hour 
in an open carriage. 

All the time they wore out Frances regaled her with the 
stories of the poor and suffering people. She told her 
stories with great skill, knowing just where to leave off, 
and just the points that would be most likely to interest 
her companion. So interesting did she make herself that 
never once during the drive was Mrs. Carnegie heard to 
mention the word “ nerves, and so practical and to the 
point were her words that the rich woman^s purse was 
opened, and two five-pound notes were given to Frances to 
relieve those who stood most in need of them. 

“ Positively I am better/’ explained Mrs. Carnegie, as 
she eat her dainty dinner with appetite. 

An hour later she was seated cosily in the arbor which 
faced down the celebrated Rose Walk, a place well known 
to all the visitors at Arden. 

“ You are a witch,” she said to Frances; “ for positively 
I do declare the racking, torturing pain in my back is 
easier. The jolting of the carriage ought to have made it 
ten times worse, but it didn’t. 1 positively can’t under- 
stand it, my love. ” 

“ You forget,” said Frances, “ that although the jolt- 
ing of the carriage might have tried your nerves a very lit- 
tle, the soft, sweet air and change of scene did them good.” 


FRAl^CES RAFTERS FORTUNE. 


79 


“ And your conversation, dearest — the limpid notes of 
that sweetest voice. Ah, Frances, your tales were harrow- 
ing!’^ 

“ Yes; but they were more harrowing to be lived through. 
You, dear Mrs. Carnegie, to-day have relieved a certain 
amount of this misery.” 

“ Ah, my sweet, how good your words sound! They are 
like balm to this tempest-tossed heart and nerve-racked 
form. Frances dear, we have an affinity one for the other. 
I trust it may be our fate to live and die together.” 

Frances could scarcely suppress a slight shudder. Mrs. 
Carnegie suddenly caught her arm. 

“ Who is that radiant-looking young creature coming 
down the Rose Walk she exclai med. ‘ ‘ See — ah, my dear 
Frances, what a little beauty! What style! what exquisite 
bloom!” 

“ Why, it is Fluff!” exclaimed Frances. 

She rushed from Mrs. Carnegie’s side, and the next mo- 
ment Miss Danvers’s arms were round her neck. 

“ Yes, I’ve come, Frances,” she exclaimed. “I have 
really come back. And who do you think I am staying 


with?” 


“ Oh, Fluff — at the Firs! It would be kind of you to 
cheer my poor old father up with a visit.” 

“ But I’m not cheering him up with any visit — I’m not 
fond of him. I’m staying with Mr. and Mrs. 



Frances opened her eyes very wide; she felt a kind of 
shock, and a feeling almost of disgust crept over her. 

“ Mr. Spens? Surely you don’t mean my father’s law- 
yer, Mr. Spens, who lives in Martinstown, Fluff?” 

“ Yes, I don’t mean anybody else.” 

“ But I did not think you knew him.” 

“ I did not when last I saw you, but I do now — very 
well, oh> very well indeed. He’s a darling.” 

” Fluff! How can you speak of dull old Mr. Spens in 
that way? Well, you puzzle me. I don’t know why you 
are staying with him.” 

“You are not going to know just at present, dearest 
Francie. There’s a little bit of a secret afloat. Quito a 
harmless, innocent secret, which I promise you will break 
nobody’s heart. I like so much being with Mr. Spens, 
and so does Philip — Philip is there, too. ” 


80 


FKAKCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


“ Philip? Then they are engaged/^ thought Frances. 
“ It was very soon. It is all right, of course, but it is 
rather a shock. Poor little Fluff — dear Philip — may they 
be happy!'’ 

She turned her head away for a moment, then, with a 
white face, but steady, quiet eyes, said in her gentlest tones: 

“ Am I to congratulate you, then. Fluff?" 

“ Yes, you are — yes, you are. Oh, I am so happy, and 
everything is delicious! It's going on beautifully. I mean 
the — the affair — the secret. Frances, I left Philip at the 
gate. He would like to see you so much. Won't you go 
down and have a chat with him?" 

“ I can not; you forget that I am Mrs. Carnegie's com- 
panion. I am not my own mistress. " 

“ That thin, cross-looking woman staring at us out of 
the bower yonder? Oh, I'll take care of her. I promise 
you I’ll make myself just as agreeable as you can. There, 
run down, run down — I see Philip coming to meet you. 
Oh, what a cold wretch you are, Frances! You don't de- 
serve a lover like Philip Arnold — no, you don't." 

“ He is not my lover, he is yours." 

“ Mine? No, thank you — there, he is walking down the 
Eose-path. He is sick of waiting, poor fellow! I am off 
to Mrs. Carnegie. Oh, for goodness' sake, Francie, don't 
look so foolish!" 

Fluff turned on her heel, put wings to her feet, and in a 
moment, panting and laughing, stood by Mrs. Carnegie's 
side. 

“ Oh, I beg your pardon," she exclaimed when she could 
speak. “ I know who you are, and I am dear Frances's 
cousin. Fluff. I know you would not mind giving the poor 
thing a chance, and allowing me to stay and try to entertain 
you for a little." 

“ Sit down, my dear, sit down. You really are a radiant 
little vision. It is really most entertaining to nae to see 
anything so fresh and pretty. I must congratulate you on 
the damask roses you wear in your cheeks, my pretty one." 

“ Thank you very much; I know I have plenty of color. 
Do you mind sitting a little bit, just so — ah, that is right. 
Now we'll have our backs to the poor things, and they'll 
feel more comfortable. " 

“ My dear, extraordinary, entertaining little friend, 
what poor things do you mean?" 


FRAKCES KANE’S FORTUNE. 


81 


“ Why, Frances and — 

“ Frances — my companion — Frances Kane?^^ 

“ Yes, your companion. Only she oughtn^t to be your 
companion, and she won^t be long. Your companion, and 
my darling cousin, Frances Kane, and her lover. 

“ Her lover! 1 knew there was a love affair. That ac- 
counts for the pallor! Oh, naughty Frances; oh, cruel 
maiden, to deceive your Lucilla! 1 felt it, I guessed it, it 
throbbed in the air. Frances and her lover! My child, I 
adore lovers — let me get a peep at him. Dear Frances, 
dear girl! And is the course of true love going smoothly, 
miss — miss — 1 really don’t know your name, my little 
charmer. ” 

“ My name is Fluff — please don’t look round. It’s a 
very melancholy love affair just at present, but I’m mak- 
ing it right.” 

“ My little bewitching one, 1 would embrace you, but 
my poor miserable nerves won’t permit of the least exer- 
tion. And so Frances, my Frances, has a lover! It was 
wrong of her, darling, not to tell of this.” 

“ She gave him up to come to you.” 

“Oh, the noble girl! But do you think, my child, I 
would permit such a sacrifice? No, no; far rather would 
Lucilla Carnegie bury her sorrows in the lonely tomb. 
Lend me your handkerchief, sweet one — I can’t find my 
own, and my tears overflow. Ah, my Frances, my Frances, 
I always knew you loved me, but to this extent — oh, it is 
too much’ !’ 

“But she didn’t do it for you,” said Fluff. “She 
wanted the money to help her father — he’s such a cross, 
selfish old man. He wouldn’t let her marry Philip, 
although Philip loved her for ten years, and saved all his 
pence in Australia to try and get enough money to marry her, 
and was nearly eaten himself by the blacks, but never for- 
got her day or night — and she loved him beyond anything. 
Don’t you think, Mrs. Carnegie, that they ought to be 
married? Don’t you think so?” 

“ My child, my little fair one, you excite me much. Oh, 
I shall suffer presently! But now your enthusiasm carries 
that of Lucilla Carnegie along with you. Yes, they ought 
to be married. ” 

“ Mrs. Carnegie, they must be married. I’m deter- 


82 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


mined, and so is Philip, and so is Mr. Spens. Won’t you 
be determined too?” 

“ Yes, my child. But, oh, what shall I not lose in my 
Frances? Forgive one tear for myself — my little rose in 
June.” 

“ You needn’t fret for yourself at all. You’ll be ever 
so happy when you’ve done a noble thing. Now listen. 
This is our little plot — only first of all promise, promise 
most faithfully, that you won’t say a word to Frances.” 

“ I promise, my child. How intensely you arouse my 
curiosity! Really I begin to live.” 

“ You won’t give Frances a hint?” 

“ No, no, you may trust me, little bright one.” 

“ Well, I do trust you. I know you won’t spoil all our 
plans. You’ll share them and help us. Oh, what a happy 
woman you’ll be by and by! Now listen.” 

Then Fluff seated herself close to Mrs. Carnegie, and 
began to whisper an elaborately got-up scheme into that 
lady’s ear, to all of which she listened with glowing eyes, 
her hands clasping Fluff’s, her attention riveted on the 
sweet and eager face. 

It’s my plot,” concluded the narrator. “Philip 
doesn’t much like it — not some of it — but I say that I will 
only help him in my own way.” 

“ My dear love, I don’t think I ever heard anything 
more clever and original, and absolutely to the point. ” 

“ Now did you? I can’t sleep at night, thinking of it — 
you’ll be sure to help me?” 

“ Help you? With my heart, my life, my purse!” 

“ Oh, we don’t want your purse. You see there’s plenty 
of money; there’s the fortune Philip made for Frances. 
It would be a great pity anything else should rescue her 
from this dilemma.” 

“ Oh, it is so sweetly romantic!” said Mrs. Carnegie, 
clasping her hands. 

“Yes, that’s what I think. You’ll be quite ready when 
the time comes?” 

“ Oh, quite. More than ready, my brightest fairy!” 

“Well, here comes Frances — remember, you’re not to 
let out a word, a hint. I think I’ve amused Mrs. Carnegie 
quite nicely, Francie.” 

Frances’s cheeks had that delicate bloom on them which 
comes now and then as a special and finishing touch, as the 


FKANCES KANE^S FORTUKE. 


83 


last crown of beauty to very pale faces. Her eyes were 
soft, and her dark eyelashes were still a little wet with some 
tears which were not unhappy ones. 

“ Philip wrung a confession out of me,"’ she whispered 
to her little cousin. “ No, Fluff — no, dear Fluff, it does 
no good— no good whatever. Still, I am almost glad I told 
him.” 

“You told him what?” 

“ 1 won’t say. It can never come to anything.” 

“ I know what you said — you have made Philip very 
happy, Frances. Now 1 must run away. ” 


CHAPTEK XVII. 

THE FIRS OR FRANCES? 

It is necessary for some people to go away to be missed. 
There are certain very quiet people in the world, who make 
no fuss, who think humbly of themselves, who never on 
any occasion blow their own trumpets, who under all pos- 
sible circumstances keep in the background, but who yet 
have a knack of filling odd corners, of smoothing down 
sharp angles, of shedding the sunshine of kindness and un- 
selfishness over things generally. There are such people, 
and they are seldom very much missed until they go away. 

Then there is a hue and cry. Who did this? Whose 
duty was the other? Where is such a thing to be found? 
Will nobody attend to this small but necessary want? The 
person who never made any talk, but did all the small 
things, and made all the other people comfortable, is sud- 
denly missed, and in an instant his or her virtues are dis- 
covered. 

This was the case at the Firs when Frances on a certain 
morning drove away. 

Watkins missed her — the stable-boy, the house- servant— 
the cat, the dog— many other domestic pets — and most of 
all. Squire Kane. 

He was not neglected, but he had a sense of loneliness 
which began at the moment he awoke, and never left him 
till he went to sleep again. 

He had his meals regularly; he was called in good time 
in the morning; the new housekeeper lighted his candle 
and brought it to him at night; his favorite fruit and his 
favorite fiowers were still set before him, and the newspaper 


84 


FKANCES KANE’S FORTUNE. 


he like best always lay by his plate at breakfast-time. 
Watkins was really an excellent gardener, and the ribbon 
border still bloomed and flourished, the birds sung in the 
trees as of yore, the lawn was smoothly kept. It was early 
September now, but the old place never looked gayer, 
sweeter, brighter. Still, somehow or other the squire was 
dull. His newspaper was there, but there was no one to 
cut it, no one to read it aloud to him. The flowers were 
making a wonderful bloom, but there was no special per- 
son to talk them over with. He had no one to tell his 
thoughts to, no one to criticise, no one to praise, and — sad- 
dest want of all to a nature like his — not a soul in the 
world to blame. 

Really, Frances was very much missed; he could not 
quite have believed it before she went, for she was such a 
quiet, grave woman, but there wasn^t the least doubt on 
the subject. She had a way of making a place pleasant 
and home-like. Although she was so quiet herself, wher- 
ever she went the sun shone. It was quite remarkable how 
she was missed — even the Firs, even the home of his an- 
cestors, was quite dull without her. 

Frances had been away for five weeks, and the squire 
was beginning to wonder if he could endure much more of 
his present monotonous life, when one day, as he was pass- 
ing up and down in the sunny South Walk, he was startled, 
and his attention pleasingly diverted by the jangling sweet 
sound of silver bells. A smart little carriage, drawn by a 
pair of Arab ponies, and driven by a lady, drew up some- 
where in the elm avenue; a girl in white jumped lightly 
out, and ran toward him. 

“ Good gracious he said to himself, “ why, it’s that 
dear little Fluff. W'ell, I am glad to see her.” 

He hobbled down the path as fast as he could, and as 
Fluff drew near, sung out cheerily: 

“ Now this is a pleasing surprise! But welcome to the 
Firs, my love — welcome most heartily to the Firs. ” 

“ Thank you, squire,” replied Fluff. “ I’ve come to 
see you on a most important matter. Shall we go into the 
house, or may I talk to you here?” 

“ I hope, my dear, that you have come to say that you 
are going to pay me another visit— I do hope that is your 
important business. Your little room can be got ready in 
no time, and your guitar— I hope you’ve brought your 


FRANCES KANF/s FORTUNE. 


85 


guitar, my dear. It really is a fact, but I haven^t had one 
scrap of entertainment since Frances went away — prepos- 
terous, is it noty^^ 

“ Well, of course I knew youM miss her,^’ said Fluff in 
a tranquil voice. “ I always told you there was no one in 
the world like Frances. 

“ Yes, my dear, yes — 1 will own, yes, undoubtedly, 
Frances, for all she is so quiet, and not what you would 
call a young person, is a good deal missed in the place. 
But you have not answered my query yet. Fluff. Have 
you come to stay?^^ 

“ No, IVe not come to stay; at least, I think not. 
Squire, I am glad you appreciate dear Frances at last.^’ 

“ Of course, my love, of course. A good creature — not 
young, but a good, worthy creature. It is a great afflic- 
tion to me, being obliged, owing to sad circumstances, to 
live apart from my daughter. I am vexed that you can 
not pay me a little visit. Fluff. Whose carriage was that 
you came in? and what part of the world are you staying 
in at present?^^ 

“ That dear little pony-trap belongs to Mrs. Carnegie, 
of Arden; and her niece, Mrs. Passmore, drove me over. 
I am staying with Mr. and Mrs. Spens, at Martinstown.^^ 

“ Spens the lawyer 

“Yes, Spens the lawyer. I may stay with him if I 
like, may I not? I am a great friend of his. He sent me 
over here to-day to see you on most important business.” 

“My dear Fluff! Really, if Spens has business with 
me, he might have the goodness to come here himself.” 

“ He couldnT — he has a very bad influenza cold; he^s in 
bed with it. That was why I offered to come. Because 
the business is so very important. ” 

“ How came he to talk over my affairs with a child like 
you?” 

“ Well, as you^ll learn presently, they happen to be my 
affairs too. He thought, as he couldnT stir out of his 
bed, and I knew all the particulars, that I had better come 
over and explain everything to you, as the matter is of 
such great importance, and as a decision must l)e arrived 
at to-day.” 

Fluff spoke with great eagerness. Her eyes were glow- 
ing, her cheeks burning, and there waspT a scrap of her 
usual fun about her? 


86 


FRANCES KANE'S FORTUNE. 


In spite of himself the squire was impressed. 

“ I can not imagine what you have to say to me/' he 
said; “ but perhaps we had better go into the house." 

“ I think we had," said Fluff; “ for as what I have got 
to say will startle you a good deal, you had better sit in 
your favorite arm-chair, and have some water near you in 
case you feel faint." 

As she spoke she took his hand, led him through the 
French windows into his little parlor, and seated him com- 
fortably in his favorite chair. 

“ Now I'll begin," said Fluff. “ You must not inter- 
1 . me, although I'm afraid you will be a little startled. 
You have mortgaged the Firs for six thousand pounds." 

“ My dear Ellen!" — an angry flush rose in the squire's 
cheeks. “ Who has informed you with regard to my pri- 
vate affairs? Frances has done very — " 

“ Frances has had nothing to say to it; I won't go if 
you interrupt me. You have mortgaged the Firs for six 
thousand pounds, to some people of the name of Dawson & 
Blake, in London. Frances lives at Arden, in order to 
pay them three hundred pounds a year interest on the 
mortgage." 

“Yes, yes; really, Frances — really, Spens — " 

“ Now do stop talking; how can I tell my story if you 
interrupt every minute? Messrs. Dawson & Blake were 
very anxious to get back their money, and they wanted to 
sell the Firs in order to realize it. Mr. Spens had the 
greatest work in the world to get them to accept Frances's 
noble offer. He put tremendous pressure to bear, and at 
last, very unwillingly, they yielded." 

“ Well, well, my dear '' — the squire wiped the moisture 
from his brow — “ they have yielded, that is the great thing 
— that is the end of the story; at least, for the present." 

“ No, it is not the end of the story," said Fluff, looking 
up angrily into the old man's face. “You were quite sat- 
isfied, for it seemed all right to you; you were to stay on 
quietly here, and have your comforts, and the life you 
thought so pleasant; and Frances was to give up Philip 
Arnold, whom she loves, and go away to toil and slave and 
be miserable. Oh, it was all right for you, but it was bit- 
terly all wrong for Frances!" 

“ My dear little Fluff, my dear Ellen, pray try and 
compose yourself; I assure you my side of the bargain is 


FRANCES KANE’s FORTUNE. 


87 


dull, very dull. 1 am alone; I have no companionship. 
Not a living soul who cares for me is now to be found at 
the Firs. My side is not all sunshine. Fluff; and I own it 
— yes, 1 will own it. Fluff; I miss Frances very much.^’ 

“lam glad of that; 1 am very glad. Now I am com- 
ing to the second part of my story. A week ago Mr. Spens 
had a letter from Messrs. Dawson & Blake to say that they 
had sold their mortgage on the Firs to a stranger — a man 
who had plenty of money, but who had taken a fancy to 
the Firs, and who wished to get it cheap. 

The squire sat upright on his chair. 

“ Mr. Spens wrote at once to the new owner of the 
mortgage, and asked him if he would take five per Cdtii. 
interest on his money, and not disturb you while you lived. 
Mr. Spens received a reply yesterday, and it is because of 
that I am here now.^^ 

The squire’s face had grown very white; his lips trem- 
bled a little. 

“ What was the reply?” he asked. “ Really — really, a 
most extraordinary statement; most queer of Spens not to 
come to me himself about it. What was the reply. Fluff?” 

“ 1 told you Mr. Spens was ill and in bed. The stran- 
ger’s reply was not favorable to your wishes. He wishes for 
the Firs; he has seen the place, and would like to live there. 
He says you must sell; or, there is another condition.” 

“ What is that? This news is most alarming and dis- 
quieting. What is the other condition — the alternative?” 

Fluff rose, yawned slightly, and half turned her back to 
the squire. 

“ It is scarcely worth naming,” she said, in a light and 
indifferent voice; “ for as Frances loves Philip, of course 
she would not think of marrying any one else. But it 
seems that this stranger, when he was poking about the 
place, had caught sight of Frances, and he thought her 
very beautiful and very charming. In short, he fell in 
love with her, and he says if you will let him marry her, 
that he and she can live here, and you need never stir from 
the Firs. 1 mention this,” said Fluff; “but of course 
there’s no use in thinking of it, as Frances loves Philip. ” 

“ But there is a great deal of use in thinking of it, my 
dear; I don’t know what you mean by talking in that silly 
fashion. A rich man falls in love with my daughter. 
Really, Frances must be much better-looking than I gave 


88 


FRANCES KANE’S FORTUNE. 


her credit for. This man, who practically now owns the 
Firs, wishes to release me from all difficulties if I give him 
Frances. Of course I shall give him Frances. It is an ad- 
mirable arrangement. Frances would be most handsomely 
provided for, and I shall no longer be 'lonely with my 
daughter and son-in-law residing at the Firs.^^ 

“ But Frances loves Philip!'^ 

“ Pooh! a boy-and-girl affair. My dear, I never did, 
and never will, believe in anything between Frances and 
Arnold. I always said Arnold should be your husband. 

“ 1 don't want him, thank you." 

“ Frances was always a good girl," continued the squire; 
“ an excellent, good, obedient girl. She refused Philip 
because 1 told her to, and now she'll marry this stranger 
because I wish her to. Really, my dear, on the whole, 
your news is pleasant; only, by the way, you have not told 
me the name of the man who now holds my mortgage." 

“ He particularly wishes his name to be kept a secret for 
the present, but he is a nice fellow; I have seen him. 1 
think, if Frances could be got to consent to marry him, he 
would make her an excellent husband." 

“ My dear, she must consent. Leave my daughter to 
me; I'll manage her." 

“ Well, the stranger wants an answer to-day." 

“ How am I to manage that? I must write to Frances, 
or see her. Here she is at this moment, driving down the 
avenue with Mrs. Carnegie. Well, that is fortunate. 
Now, Fluff, you will take my part; but, of course, Frances 
will do what I wish." 

“ You can ask her, squire. I'm going to walk about 
outside with Mrs. Carnegie." 

“ And you won't take my part?" 

“ I won’t take anybody's part. I suppose Frances can 
make up her own mind." 

When Miss Kane came into her father's presence her 
eyes were brighter, and her lips wore a happier expression 
than the squire had seen on them for many a long day. 
She stepped lightly, and looked young and fresh. 

Fluff and Mrs. Carnegie paced up and down in the South 
Walk. Mrs. Carnegie could walk now, and she was cer- 
tainly wonderfully improved in appearance. 

“ Beloved little fairy," she whispered to her companion, 
“ this excitement almost overpowers me. It was with the 


FRANCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


89 


utmost difficulty I could control myself as we drove over. 
Our sweet Frances looks happy, but I do not think she 
suspects anything. Dear little one, are you certain, quite 
certain, that the hero of the hour has really arrived?^^ 

“ Philip? I have locked him up in the dining-room,'’^ 
said Fluff, “ and he is pacing up and down there now like 
a caged lion. I do hope the squire will be quick, or he’ll 
certainly burst the lock of the door. ” 

The two ladies paced the South Walk side by side. 

“ We’ll give them half an hour,” said Fluff. 

When this time had expired, she took Mrs. Carnegie’s 
hand, and they both approached the open windows of the 
squire’s parlor. When the squire saw them he rose and 
confronted them. Angry red spots were on his cheeks; his 
hands trembled. Frances was seated . at the table; she 
looked very pale, and as the two ladies approached she was 
wiping some tears silently from her eyes. 

“Yes, look at her,” said the squire, who was almost 
choking with anger. “ She refuses him — she absolutely 
refuses him! She is satisfied that her poor old father shall 
end his days in the work-house, rather than unite herself 
to an amiable and worthy man, who can amply provide 
for her. Oh, it is preposterous! 1 have no patience with 
her; she won’t even listen to me. Not a word I say has 
the smallest effect.” 

“ Because, father — ” 

“No, Frances, I won’t listen to any of your ‘ becauses. ’ 
But never, never again even profess to care for your father. 
Don’t waste words, my child; for words are empty when 
they are not followed by deeds.” 

“ I must take an answer to Mr. Spens to-day,” said 
Fluff. “ Perhaps, if Frances thought a little, she would 
change her mind. ” 

These words seemed to sting Frances, who rose quickly 
to her feet. 

“ You know why I can not help my father in this par- 
ticular,” she said. “Oh, I think, between you all, you 
will drive me mad.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Fluff, suddenly — “perhaps if you saw 
the gen tleman, Frances, you might be able to give a differ- 
ent answer. He really is very nice, and — and — the fact is, 
he’s very impatient. He has arrived — he is in the dining- 
room. '' 


90 


FEAKCES KANE^S FORTUNE. 


“ The gentleman who has purchased the mortgage is in 
the dining-room!’^ said the squire. 

He rubbed his hands gleefully. 

“ Excellent! Frances will never be so rude as to refuse 
a rich man to his face. 1 look upon him already as our 
deliverer. 1, for my part, shall give him a hearty wel- 
come, and will assure him, if he will only give me time, 
that I will not leave a stone unturned to overcome my 
daughter’s absurd infatuation. Frances, do you hear me? 
1 desire you to behave politely to the stranger when he 
comes.” 

“ Perhaps I had better go away,” said Frances. 

‘‘No, no, dear Frances; do stay,” pleaded Fluff. “I’ll go 
and fetch the gentleman; 1 know him; he is really very nice. ” 

She darted away. 

Frances turned her back to the window. 

“You know, father, all I have done for ’you,” she said, 
her beautiful eyes shining and her slim figure very erect. 
“I have loved Philip — oh, so deeply, so faithfully! — for 
ten years. For five of these years 1 thought he was in his 
grave; and my heart went there, too, with him. Then he 
came back, and I was very happy; for I found that he had 
loved me, and thought of me alone, also, all that long, 
long time. I was happy then, beyond words, and no 
woman ever more fervently thanked God. Then — then — 
you know what happened. I gave Philip up. 1 consented 
to let my light, my hope, and my joy die out. 1 did that 
for you; but 1 did not consent to let my love die; and I 
tell you now, once and for all, that my love will never 
die; and that, as I so love Philip, 1 can never, even for 
your sake, marry any one but Philip!” 

“ Oh, Francie! Francie!” suddenly exclaimed a joyful 
little voice. “No one in all the world wants you to marry 
any one else! The stranger isn’t a stranger. Say ‘ Yes ’ 
to your father and to Philip at the same time.” 

Frances turned; Arnold stepped in through the open 
window and put his arm round her. 

“ Now, sir,” he said, holding Frances’s hand, and turning 
to the squire, “ which am 1 to have — the Firs or Frances?” 

Of course everybody present knew the answer, so there 
is no need to record it here. 


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To secure the most delicate and refined perfume from the rose, 
it is necessary to discard the green central bulb. The above picture, 
reproduced from a photograph, shows a large number of girls and 
women seated around tables piled high with roses, engaged in stripping 
off the leaves. 

Although this is a very tedious and expensive operation, yet 
Colgate & Co., each year, have millions of roses separately handled 
and stripped of their leaves, to obtain the most delicate odor for their 
unrivalled soaps and perfumes, the favorite of which is 

Cashmere Bouquet 


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